“We contain multitudes.” ~ Walt Whitman, American poet and essayist
A while back, I attended a memorial service for someone who had passed away. My relationship with this person was very challenging, and attending the service brought me face-to-face with something I have been wrestling with ever since: people are deeply complex.
I heard beautiful stories from those who loved and felt deeply connected to this person. There was laughter, sadness, grief, and genuine love deeply expressed. It reminded me that we can know the same person and experience them in completely different ways.
And that can be very confusing.
When a relationship is challenging, it can be easy to turn inward and wonder, Is something wrong with me? Why don’t I connect the way other people did?
Two people can have very different experiences with someone, and both experiences can be real. We don’t have to diminish someone else’s positive experience to discount our own. But we also don’t have to share every part of our story either. There can be integrity in knowing what is ours to share, what is ours to process privately, and when silence is not avoidance, but a choice. We can allow space for others’ grief and sorrow without speaking negatively of our own experience.
I don’t need to tear someone down to acknowledge that the relationship was difficult for me. I can hold my own truth, learn from what I experienced, and not make someone else wrong. That, too, is a boundary that shows up in self-respect.
And then there is the work of letting go.
Some relationships leave behind anger, disappointment, hurt, or resentment. Those feelings deserve to be acknowledged. But there comes a point when we need to ask ourselves: What is serving me by continuing to carry baggage around this person?
Releasing the emotional weight is a process. We don’t simply decide one day to let go and suddenly feel free. Healing takes time. Confusing feelings may resurface, and that doesn’t mean we’ve failed or gone backward. We can meet them with compassion, learn from them, and gently choose, again and again, what we are ready to release.
Letting go doesn’t mean what happened in the past didn’t matter. It doesn’t mean excusing the hardship or pretending the relationship was something it wasn’t. It means choosing not to allow the pain to continue taking up space in our lives. Letting go is not something we do for another person.
It is something we do for ourselves.
Over many years, this relationship became an unexpected teacher. Through all the interactions, I learned more about myself: what pushed my buttons, about speaking my truth, honoring my boundaries, listening to my intuition, and responding with integrity, rather than reacting. Where I still needed to grow. All choices within my control and, yes, most days, this was easier said than done.
I attended the memorial. Not because everything was easy or resolved, but because showing up is who I choose to be. I wanted to acknowledge the life that was being remembered and support those who where hurting and grieving for the loss.
Perhaps that is part of emotional maturity: learning that compassion and boundaries can coexist. That gratitude and grief can coexist. That love and complexity can coexist. That we can hold our own truth without needing to defend it or broadcast it.
As much as we would like, we can’t be loved by everyone or even love others back. And we can’t make every relationship into a close bond.
We also don’t have to rush letting go of the negative experiences. We can take the time we need to process, to heal, and to understand what the relationship taught us. We can release the emotional weight and replace it with wisdom, personal growth, and lessons learned.
Sometimes the greatest gifts come from learning to wrestle with complexity, to honor what was, learn from what it taught us, release what no longer serves us, and we get to choose how we want to show up moving forward.
Two complex feelings can exist at the same time. And perhaps there is freedom in holding space for them both to be true.
Stretching alongside you,
Amy
