From My Heart to the Page
The Weight of Letting Go.
Hey friends, I don’t usually share this kind of writing, but sometimes I feel an urge to just type and let it all pour out. This is one of those moments. It’s raw, it’s personal, and it’s something that’s been weighing on my heart. I’m not sure if it’ll resonate with you, but it came to me strongly, so I hope it finds the person who needs to read it.
Sometimes, I love my gift—my ability to feel so deeply. It’s a part of me that allows connection, empathy, and holding space for others in ways that feel almost sacred. But this same gift also leaves me open and raw, vulnerable to the pull of energies that don’t belong to me, yet find their way in.
I feel their pain, their discomfort, their despair, as if it’s my own. I feel their anger and confusion swirling in the air. It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? To hold the anguish of someone who wronged you. To feel their turmoil deeply enough to want to cry for them, even as you’re the one they hurt.
And yet, here I am. Feeling it all.
It’s almost unbearable—the way they replay things in their mind, bouncing between anger and disbelief, asking themselves how I could leave like this, without a warning, without a goodbye, without the text they expected me to send. But this time, it had to be different.
Leaving wasn’t easy for me either. It hurt to walk away. It hurt to commit to this journey of letting go, of breaking free from the version of reality that once served me but no longer does. It meant suffering my own dark nights of the soul, processing every moment their actions didn’t align with their words, questioning, overanalyzing, and justifying behavior I never should have had to.
But here’s the truth: you brought me back to me.
Every moment of pain, every second of confusion, every time I questioned my worth—it all led me back to my own brilliance. The light I saw in you? It wasn’t yours. It was mine, reflected back to me. My beauty, my depth, my fire—hidden under layers of doubt but undeniable when it was mirrored in your presence.
And now I thank you. Not for what we had, but for what your chaos forced me to see. You were the storm that brought me to my own shores. I hope my departure becomes the same for you. I hope it forces you to confront your own darkness, to fight the demons you’ve let linger for too long, and to become the man I once believed you could be—or at least the man I hoped you could be.
Is it over? Yes. But not with hope for reconciliation—because that burned away along with the parts of me that only saw your light and ignored your shadows.
I pray for you—not for us, but for you. That you find the courage to face yourself. That you stop hiding behind comfort, fear, and the illusions of control.
As I write this, a song plays in the background—a woman reclaiming her power. And I smile, because that’s exactly what I’m doing.
So, let me be clear: I don’t need you. You needed me. And now, I release your energy completely.
This is my power, reclaimed.
This is my light, untethered.
And this is my goodbye—not for you, but for me.
May you find your way, but far from here.
—Manny