My Black is NOT Cracking.

I used to believe that holding on was a sign of loyalty. That endurance meant strength. That if something or someone had been part of my life for a long time, I owed it permanence.

There comes a moment in life, sometimes quietly, sometimes like a lightening bolt, when you realize that certain things, habits, and even people no longer fit who you’ve become.

Not because they’re bad.
Not because you’re better.
But because you’ve grown.

Growth has a way of rearranging everything. What once felt familiar can begin to feel heavy. What once energized you can start to drain you. And relationships that once made sense may no longer align with the person you are becoming.

This is where shedding begins.

Letting go isn’t an act of cruelty. It’s an act of honesty. It’s acknowledging that holding on to what no longer serves you comes at a cost. That cost might be your peace, your clarity, or your ability to move forward.

There comes a quiet moment and sometimes after a season of discomfort, sometimes after a single, unmistakable realization, when you recognize that what once fit you no longer does. The conversations feel forced. The spaces feel smaller. The version of you that once thrived there feels like a past life.

Admitting that is painful.

I have talked a lot about grief and the loss over loved ones and friends over the past few years, but rarely does anyone talk about the grief that comes with becoming. We celebrate growth, but we don’t always acknowledge what it costs. Because growth often requires shedding; shedding layers, identities, relationships, and even dreams.

There is real pain in outgrowing people and places. There is grief in recognizing that a chapter has ended, even if it was beautiful while it lasted. We often mourn not just what was, but what we hoped it would continue to be. And that grief deserves space.

I’ve learned that not everything that was right for you once is meant to walk with you forever. And that doesn’t make those people or moments less meaningful. It just means their purpose in your life has changed.

Some relationships don’t end with explosions. (Sometimes they DO!) They fade. They soften. They shift into something quieter and more distant. I’ve had to learn that loving someone doesn’t always mean keeping them close. Sometimes it means wishing them well from afar. Sometimes, the healthiest choice is to love people from a distance.

Shedding also applies to things like roles we’ve outgrown, expectations we never chose, beliefs that once protected us, but now limit us. We carry so much without questioning whether it still belongs to us. Growth asks us to check in and decide what we’re willing to keep carrying forward.

Here’s the hard truth: growth is not comfortable. It’s disruptive. It asks for courage and a willingness to sit with discomfort. But stagnation is far more dangerous. Because if you are not growing, you are slowly dying, and not always physically, but emotionally, creatively, spiritually. You begin to shrink yourself to fit spaces you’ve already outgrown. That kind of distance can feel like betrayal. Especially when you’re the one choosing it.

I’ve wrestled with guilt. With second-guessing. With the fear of being misunderstood. But over time, I’ve realized that abandoning myself to keep others comfortable is not kindness. It’s self-erasure.

Letting go has forced me to confront who I am now, not who I used to be or who others expect me to remain. It’s required honesty about what drains me and what sustains me. It’s meant releasing old roles that I played well.  

And yes, it has hurt. It ain’t easy.

There are moments when I miss versions of my life that no longer exist. When I wonder if I’ve changed too much. When I feel the ache of absence where familiarity once lived. It can be a lonely place to be. But I am also starting to feel something else. Relief.

I’ve come to understand that growth is not optional. You’re either expanding, or you’re slowly shrinking. You’re either evolving, or you are quietly fading. Letting go is not failure. It’s evidence that you are listening to your intuition and your needs. It’s proof you are becoming.

So, I’m learning to release with grace. To honor what was without forcing it to remain. To trust that making space is an act of faith that something more fitting, more nourishing will eventually fill it.

This is what growth looks like for me now.

And I’m choosing it, even when it hurts.

Photo by Thirdman : https://www.pexels.com/photo/a-text-saying-move-on-made-from-tiles-with-letters-lying-on-pink-background-5981365/