One of the hardest things in life is walking away.
At least in your boy’s humble opinion.
And I mean that on a grand scale. Zoom out with me for a second. Maybe it’s a job you loved. Coworkers you grew alongside. An office that felt more like you than your actual home. A steady paycheck that covered the bills & then some… but quietly cost you time & energy.
Pieces of yourself you could no longer settle to live without.
Maybe it’s a long-term relationship. The kind that began in your formative years & slowly became intertwined with your identity. The kind that didn’t explode or implode. Nothing critically urgent. No countdown clock. No dramatic exit.
Just a slow realization that something isn’t aligned anymore.
That’s what makes it hard.
When there isn’t a gun to your head. When there isn’t a bomb ticking down. When everything is relatively “fine.” You tighten your grip until your knuckles feel like they’ll split. And in the short term, it almost feels secure. Like holding on proves commitment. Like letting go would mean failure.
So you tell yourself:
One more shot.
One more month.
One more conversation.
One more chance.
And sometimes that’s necessary.
But I also believe that deep down—in our bodies, in our spirit—we know when time is up. For me, it was my decade-long career as an influencer.
I had the partnerships with brands like Crock-Pot & Impossible Foods. I was doing live TV, flying to Chicago for shoots, signing contracts, & watching steady deposits hit my account. On paper, it was everything I once prayed for.
And I was proud of it. I was good at it.
But I remember landing campaigns that should have made me ecstatic & just feeling… neutral. Wrapping up a shoot, packing up lights, & standing in silence with no real sense of aliveness attached to it.
That scared me.
Because it wasn’t burnout. It wasn’t exhaustion. It was a quiet, internal shift I could no longer ignore. And once you feel that shift in your bones, pretending becomes impossible.
Letting go was terrifying. Being in a place where I didn’t know what was next? Even more terrifying.
But what I learned was trust.
Trust that something would meet me on the other side. Trust that I could move forward & build something that felt more aligned. Trust that releasing something good didn’t mean I was losing, it meant I was evolving.
It is hard to release what you’ve held onto for so long. But once you let go, you don’t fall into emptiness. You create space.
Not a void. Room to breathe again.
If you’re gripping something tightly right now, unsure whether it’s time to loosen your hold, this letter is for you.
Dear You,
It can feel unbearable to loosen your grip on what once
meant everything…
Perhaps it’s a memory, a relationship, an identity, or even a dream. Letting go can seem like betrayal, like giving up, like erasing the part of you that once needed it to survive. And so you hold tighter, even as it slips through your fingers, even as it weighs you down.
But letting go isn’t failure.
It isn’t abandonment. It’s trust. Trust that something else will meet you on the other side. Trust that release creates space for renewal. Trust that you can honor the past without being bound to it.
And I know, it’s not easy.
Sometimes the hardest thing to release is the version of yourself you thought you’d be by now. But even this loss can be a form of liberation. What’s waiting for you is not emptiness, but room to breathe again.
Ask yourself:
If I loosened my grip, what space might open in my life?
What would it feel like to trust that letting go is its own kind of becoming?
If you’re looking for ease, really sit with these questions.
You do not dishonor the past by setting it down. You honor yourself by making room for what comes next.
With you in the release,
Kasim