The Quiet Work of Letting Go: Longing and Looking Inward

There’s a kind of pain that doesn’t make a lot of noise. It doesn’t come with a dramatic breakup or a messy goodbye. It’s quieter than that. It’s the ache that follows a decision you know was necessary—the decision to walk away from someone you loved, even when your whole body wants to go back.

I’ve sat with this kind of ache. Not just professionally, but personally. And I’ve walked alongside others—clients and loved ones—who’ve felt the same contradiction: I know this isn’t good for me… so why do I still want to go back?

One client recently put it into words I haven’t stopped thinking about. After recounting all the ways her relationship left her depleted, she admitted, “Everything in me still wants to be with him. My mind keeps trying to forget the hard parts. My body feels panicked at the thought of letting go. I know it wasn’t right—but I still want it.”

That’s the thing about heartbreak: even when the facts are clear, the feelings don’t always follow. And in those in-between places—where desire collides with discernment—healing takes its fiercest shape.

This blog is for those stuck moments. For the quiet grief that lingers after the decision is made. For the mind that knows, but forgets. For the body that still longs. And for the tools that help us stay rooted in what we’ve learned, even when it hurts.

The Pull That Doesn’t Make Sense (But Still Shows Up)

I’ve known the kind of love that lingers—long after the logic has lined up and the red flags have been recognized. The kind where even after you walk away, part of you wants to sprint right back. Not because things were good in every way, but because the good parts were really good. Because the person, for all their imperfections, felt like home—at least at one point.

Letting go of that kind of love is layered. There’s the part that knows exactly why it had to end, and then there’s the part that quietly wonders if maybe it could still work. It’s not always loud or obvious. Sometimes it’s just a passing thought, or a sudden memory that makes you ache a little. Sometimes it’s the desire to feel chosen again, even if it means being chosen by someone who wasn’t willing to do what choosing you truly required.

I’ve had to remind myself that clarity isn’t always a feeling—it’s often a choice. It’s the quiet, steady decision to trust what I know now, even when my emotions haven’t caught up yet. It’s remembering the full picture, not just the highlights. And it’s learning how to hold space for the grief without confusing it for regret.

Grief, Not Regret

It was the right decision. I know that. And still—there are moments when the grief creeps in like a whisper. When my chest tightens at the thought of what we had. When the good memories knock louder than the reasons I left. And I have to remind myself: this is grief, not regret.

Grief is the natural response to loss, even when the loss is chosen. It doesn't mean we made the wrong decision; it means we cared deeply. Recognizing this distinction allows us to honor our emotions without being pulled back into situations that no longer serve us.

The Tools That Helped Me Stay Grounded

Letting go of something meaningful—especially when so much of it was good—requires more than willpower. It takes intention. Practice. Sometimes even muscle memory. I didn’t sit down with a list of tools to help me through this process. But when I look back, I realize I was using several without even naming them at first. So now, I want to name them—for myself, and for anyone who needs them.

1. Reflective Journaling: Naming What I Won’t Miss

One of the ways I stayed anchored was writing down not just what I loved about the relationship, but what I didn’t. The things that triggered me, diminished me, or quietly wore me down. Sometimes we only remember the good when grief hits—but naming the things I’m not going to miss helped keep me grounded in reality.

2. Reframing the Narrative: I’m Not Being Left—I’m Choosing Peace

There’s a story we tell ourselves in heartbreak: that we were abandoned, rejected, or overlooked. But when we step back, we may realize—we weren’t left behind. We left. We chose ourselves. That’s not rejection. That’s reclamation.

3. Embodied Awareness: Feeling the Pull—Then Returning to Center

Our bodies know the ache of absence. They remember the comfort and rhythm of connection. But when we pause and really check in, we might also feel what our bodies held during the relationship—tightness, anxiety, that constant edge of waiting. That somatic memory can be a powerful compass, guiding us gently back to what feels right.

4. Grief Without Negotiation: No More Bargaining for a Different Ending

So many of us try to grieve and bargain at the same time—“maybe if I just…” or “what if they change?” But there’s peace in sitting with the grief without trying to negotiate it into something else. The loss is real. The love was real. But so was the misalignment. We can feel that pain without asking it to reshape itself into another chance.

5. Remembering the Full Story—Not Just the Highlight Reel

Grief has a way of romanticizing the past. It spotlights the laughter, the sweetness, the soft moments that made you feel safe. But I had to remind myself of all of it—not to demonize him, but to tell myself the whole truth. The good was real. So was the pain. Holding both helped me stay honest.

6. Naming What I Wasn’t Willing to Keep Carrying

Even love has limits. There were needs that went unmet, boundaries that were repeatedly tested. Naming those clearly helped me let them go, instead of renegotiating them in my head. It was a declaration to myself: You don’t have to carry what costs you your peace.

7. Creating Reminders for the Days I’d Forget

I knew moments of weakness would come. Days when I’d want to romanticize the past or reach out for connection. So I left myself notes—in journals, in voice memos, in conversations with trusted friends. Simple messages like: “Remember what it cost you. Don’t re-enter the ache.” They pulled me back to my why.

8. Letting the Longing Speak—But Not Lead

I gave the longing a voice, but not the steering wheel. I let it say what it needed to say. I let it grieve. But I didn’t let it rewrite the truth. Longing is human. It doesn’t mean we’re meant to return. It just means our hearts are still healing.

9. Honoring My Strength—Even When It Felt Shaky

Strength doesn’t always look bold. Sometimes it looks like staying silent instead of reaching out. Like choosing solitude over compromise. Like letting go of what felt good because it wasn’t good for me. Each of those moments reminded me: I’m not just surviving this—I’m growing through it.

Letting Go and Letting Peace Be Enough

Sometimes closure doesn’t come with answers. Sometimes it comes with silence you learn to stop filling. With space you learn to stop resisting. With peace that doesn’t clap, but still comforts.

I won’t pretend this is easy. Choosing yourself never is—especially when you still care. Especially when you know it almost worked. But that’s the kind of strength no one applauds enough: the kind that walks away, not because there was no love, but because there wasn’t enough alignment to let love grow.

And if you’re in that space too—where your mind and body keep pulling you back to someone you’ve already outgrown—I hope you’ll be gentle with yourself. I hope you’ll remember that longing is not the same as love. That grief is not a signal to return. And that healing sometimes looks like staying gone.

Let your peace be louder than your pull. Let your clarity be your comfort. And let the version of you that walked away be the version you choose to keep becoming.

This article is part of a reflective series I’m calling The Quiet Work of Letting Go—a collection of writings that explore what it means to release what no longer fits, even when it still tugs at your heart. Each piece stands on its own, but together they trace the layered, often nonlinear path of healing.

Written by Carlita L. Coley, LPC

*******

About the Author

I’m a writer, therapist, and wellness advocate who believes in the healing power of reflection and real conversation. Through my work—and my words—I explore the tender, complex spaces of the human experience, especially the ones we’re often afraid to name. I write not because I have all the answers, but because I’ve lived the questions.

The Quiet Work of Letting Go is a deeply personal offering, drawn from both my professional insight and my own process of becoming. My hope is that these reflections give voice to what others may struggle to say—and help us all feel a little more steady and whole.