What Remains After They’re Gone

Daily writing prompt

How do significant life events or the passage of time influence your perspective on life?

View all responses

Image source

There are losses that come with sudden announcements and those that slip in quietly. This loss falls into the latter category. I slowly came to understand that someone I loved had chosen not to stay in contact. This sudden change didn’t involve death or drama. There was no final argument or clear explanation. It was a distance that grew until it was gone. There were messages one day. Then they were gone. There was familiarity one day. After that, there was nothing.

At first, I didn’t know it was grief. I told myself that this was normal. People go their separate ways and lives move in different directions. Not every connection lasts through change. Still, the body notices things before the mind does. I reread old conversations and paused before sending messages. I knew I wouldn’t send it, so I held on to my phone longer than I needed to, as if I was waiting for something that had already decided not to arrive.

This month has been full of transitions. I’m leaving a church community that has been a big part of my adult life. I’m finally giving up a part of myself that learned to put up with things by remaining small and compliant. Along with that, I carry the loss of someone who was important to me and was a part of my daily life.

None of these changes came with clear endings. Leaving a community takes shape through many small choices that build on each other. First, the practical tasks, and then the emotional ones. Memories come back to me at the worst possible times: familiar songs, old habits, and routines that make up almost two decades of my life. You don’t leave cleanly. Pieces linger even if you don’t want them to.

Estrangement follows a similar pattern. The loss is evident in mundane instances—such as the impulse to share something and then halting midway, or the instinct to reach out followed by the silent adjustment that you no longer do that. It lives in little things and in spaces where another person used to be.

I used to think that as I got older, I would learn how to let go and carry less weight. The years have made me more aware, though. I notice what I hold on to and how much I let people into my private life. Even brief connections can make a big difference. Age hasn’t made me tougher. It only made me more honest about how I feel.

You can show up, be there, and care for someone, but you can’t make them remain in your life. When they leave, all that is left is how you deal with the absence, probably not in big ways but in how you carry that loss within you.

Some days I feel fine. Some days I feel grief over unfinished conversations or bonding. Sometimes relief, sadness, clarity, and weariness all come together. When you leave the church, you feel both free and lost. Losing someone I loved makes me feel both grief-ridden and accepting. Both changes happen at the same time, and neither one makes things easier.

Transitions don’t usually come one at a time. One ending loosens another. One shift makes room for the next. You can’t always deal with them one at a time; sometimes you have to deal with many changes at once and do your best to stay present.

There is no big breakthrough or a sudden resolution here. I’m just paying attention to things in my life. Mornings are different. Some memories resurface without warning. Silence is more valuable now than it used to be. I also feel a growing sense of stability, not because life is easier, but because I have stopped fighting against change.

Estrangement teaches something quiet but powerful: love doesn’t last forever. People come into your life for reasons you may never fully understand, and sometimes they leave without saying why. There is no guarantee of closure, and answers may never come. Your task is to keep going while carrying what matters.

Right now, that task looks like letting the absence exist without rushing to replace it. It means letting sadness exist without turning it into a story about failure. It means accepting that this season is about letting go, even though I would have liked things to stay the same.

Time moves the days forward without healing these particular wounds, and I do the same. Not with certainty or everything worked out, but with awareness and willingness to remain with what is, even when it means losing someone you loved.

I write about Iban culture, ancestral rituals, creative life, emotional truths, and the quiet transformations of love, motherhood, and identity. If this speaks to you, subscribe and journey with me.