Describe a phase in life that was difficult to say goodbye to.

One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do was let go of a version of my life that looked perfect on paper.

Everything made sense. I knew my role. My relationships felt clear. My path felt mapped out. It was structured. It was safe. It was familiar. It was mine.

And that’s exactly why walking away felt so heavy.

I used to think I was grieving the season itself. But really, I was grieving my attachment to it. In Buddhist thought, we’re taught that suffering doesn’t come from change — it comes from clinging. I wasn’t in pain because life was shifting. I was in pain because I wanted it to stay.

I wanted permanence in something beautifully impermanent.

But life moves the way breath moves — in and out, rising and falling. Nothing is meant to be held forever. Not roles. Not certainty. Not even the versions of ourselves we once felt so sure about.

Growth doesn’t always arrive as expansion. Sometimes it arrives as release. Sometimes it asks you to loosen your grip before you understand why.

When I stopped resisting the transition and began to meet it with acceptance, something softened. I could see the season for what it was: not a destination, but a teacher. A chapter, not the whole story.

A seed doesn’t become a tree by staying whole. It breaks open. Not because it failed — but because it’s ready.

Letting go wasn’t weakness. It was practice. It was trust. It was choosing alignment over attachment.

That season shaped me deeply. I carry its lessons with gratitude. But it was never meant to contain me.