Let It Fall Apart: trusting the beauty beyond the breaking

Meryl Streep once said, “Let things fall apart, stop exhausting yourself trying to hold them together.” And maybe, just maybe, she was right.

There’s something tender and terrifying about watching the pieces slip through your fingers. A friendship strained. A dream delayed. A plan unravelled. We’re taught to fight for what matters and rarely taught how to let go with grace.

Perhaps, the truth can be that, not everything is meant to last forever. Some chapters are just that, chapters. Forcing a storyline that’s run its course, may not bring peace, instead pressure. where does the belief that we owe the world a perfect ending or our exhaustion.

Let it fall apart.

I'm learning to let people misunderstand me. To let them draw conclusions without context, to tell my story without ever reading the full page. That their opinions are not mine to carry. I don’t need to contort myself into something smaller just so others can feel comfortable. I’m not here to be universally understood.

It still hurts sometimes. The criticism, the judgement, the silence when people walk away. It does not define my worth, a new paradyme, for me.

And then there’s the fear, the paralysing kind that rises when something ends. I still ask myself, Where will I go? What will I do? As if I’ve forgotten that the unknown has held me before. That I’ve already survived the unimaginable. The truth is what leaves often clears the way. Loss may look like punishment, but more often, it’s preparation.

What is meant to leave will leave. What is meant to stay will find a way.

I’m beginning to see that there’s a rhythm to life, a quiet choreography of endings and beginnings.

When I resist it, I only create more suffering. I cling to what’s already collapsing, as if pain is safer than possibility. But letting go isn’t failure. It’s trust. It’s the quiet belief that the universe isn’t finished with me yet. Because it isn’t.

The good hasn’t run out. Joy isn’t behind me. Love isn’t lost.

There are still sunrises waiting to take my breath away.

Still laughter that will echo through my bones.

Still people I haven’t met who will feel like home.

But first, I need to make space.

So I ask myself: What am I holding onto that’s holding me back?

When the answer rises, I try not to push it away now. I try to sit with it.

And then, with all the strength I’ve gathered, I let it go.

Not because it wasn’t real. Not because it didn’t matter.

But because my story is still being written. And something better is already on its way.