the art of losing
SUNDAY 10 AUG
They never tell you that losing becomes a skill. At first, it’s clumsy; you trip over memories, choke on words you should have swallowed, fold yourself in half trying to hold onto someone who was already gone. Over time, though, you learn the choreography. The quiet unthreading of a name from your mouth. The way you walk past a place without letting it grab you by the throat. The art of smiling like you’ve forgotten when you haven’t.
The thing about losing is you start to recognize its patterns. You know the sound of it coming. The way conversations change key, the way the air feels heavier in the room. You can spot the exit wounds before the shots have been fired.
Some losses are small; the fading warmth of a coffee cup left behind, the number you almost dial but don’t. Others are seismic; a city you thought was yours, a body you’d thought you would grow old besides. The half-buttoned shirt on your bedroom chair the morning after, still holding the scent of someone you didn’t ask to stay. I’ve known them all, and somewhere along the way, I’ve learned there’s a strange dignity in opening your hands instead of letting something rot in your grip.
Maybe it’s because I’ve spent most of my working life living out of a suitcase. Always leaving, always arriving, never fully unpacking. You get used to the hellos laced with goodbyes, to holding moments loosely so they don’t cut you when they’re gone. Like leaning against a stranger on a flight for just long enough to feel human, then watching them disappear into the crowd without turning back.
At first, that knowing feels like a curse. You think I can’t keep doing this to myself. But somewhere along the way, it becomes its own kind of endurance. You stop expecting permanence and start measuring life in moments you’re willing to risk everything for, even knowing they might slip through your hands.
Because here’s the truth, well at least my truth, when you’ve lived most of your life in the shadow of loss, you also learn something else. That sweet little spot, that impossible crevice between holding and letting go; is where life actually happens. It’s where you say yes to the dinner invite, yes to the stranger’s smile, yes to the kind of love that may not stay but will leave you better than it found you.
Losing might be all I’ve ever known, but so is trying again. And maybe that’s the real art; not how gracefully you let go, but how shamelessly you keep showing up for more.
Same time next week, with whatever I’ve learned, whatever I’ve lost and whatever I’m reckless enough to hold.