I once wrote an article so difficult, so stubbornly uncooperative, that I started to think of it as my Everest. Except instead of oxygen deprivation and frostbite, I faced caffeine crashes and emotional reckoning. When my editor assigned me the task of answering “What does it mean to truly let go after a breakup?” I had no idea what I was agreeing to. It wasn’t just a piece of writing; it was a séance. And my ghost wasn’t some gothic specter—it was my ex.
We all have one (or several): the breakup that doesn’t simply file itself into a neat folder labeled "Past Relationships" in your brain. It’s the plot twist in the novel you’re still trying to write, even after the ink of their name dried years ago. For me, that someone was Cate. Beautifully intense, meteor-streak short-lived, Cate. Writing about “letting go” meant revisiting her—in all her fiery glory—and everything she taught (and un-taught) me about love, timing, and acceptance.
This was the hardest piece I’ve ever written because, well, how do you write about emotional closure when you’re still wondering if it even exists?
Section 1: The Cate Episode
Let me paint a picture of Cate: She was the kind of girl who could argue with a bartender about sustainable wine practices while simultaneously laughing at herself mid-argument. A living, breathing oxymoron of passion and playfulness. We met five years ago in Big Sur. I was researching the effects of coastal erosion for an eco-conscious creative project, and she was working as a waitress at a lodge that might as well have been plucked from a Wes Anderson film. She wore hiking boots to our first “date,” a dinner that blurred into stargazing on a way-too-cold-for-California night. She made me laugh and also, somehow, forget I wasn’t supposed to laugh so loudly in public.
Our relationship was like an indie movie with a killer soundtrack: raw, layered, and destined for one of those ambiguous endings that leaves you staring at the credits wondering, “Wait—that’s it?” Spoiler alert: Yes. That was it. Fast-forward six months, and we unraveled like an old woven beach blanket, each pull of the thread revealing all the ways we weren’t built to last. Timing, priorities, differing visions for our lives (she dreamed of van-life in Alaska; I’m a creature of Santa Monica sunsets)—it all conspired to end us.
The breakup wasn’t dramatic. No shouting or door slamming. Just the undeniable realization that we weren’t a match built for the long game. And for years, I thought I was fine with that… until my editor sent me spinning back into old memories like a modern-day Marty McFly.
Section 2: Why Writing Is Emotional Archaeology
Here’s the thing about writing about breakups: it’s less about the story of the relationship and more about dissecting the aftermath. No one prepares you for how profoundly uncomfortable that process can be. It’s like being the lone archaeologist at your own dig site, unearthing emotional relics you thought were buried forever. Some discoveries are nostalgic—tiny joys you forgot existed. Others? The hurt beneath layers of supposed closure.
For example, as I sat down to write, I couldn’t stop fixating on the little moments with Cate—the mornings she’d nestle a forest-green mug of coffee into my hands as fog curled around the cliffs outside her cabin. The way she’d laugh at my obsession with getting wooden coasters perfectly aligned on a table. I remembered all the good things… and then had to actively remind myself why we didn’t work.
Letting go isn’t about nostalgia denial. It’s about holding space for your emotions while kindly showing them the door afterward.
Section 3: The Takeaways (or “Things I Learned While Trying Not to Spiral”)
In the spirit of sparing you from your own spiral, here are the lessons I lifted from this Sisyphean task of writing about Cate—and the art of emotionally moving on:
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Closure Isn’t a Treasure Chest, It’s Compost
You don’t just find closure; it’s something you make. Like compost, it requires time, messiness, and the willingness to let old feelings decay into something you can grow from. Your pain, like banana peels and eggshells, can fertilize your future self. (Apologies for the mental image, but hey—it works.) -
Romanticize, Then De-romanticize
I’ve found that romanticizing an ex can be oddly therapeutic as long as you follow it up with a brutal dose of reality. Yes, Cate’s “adventure girl” energy was magnetic, but she also made me listen to ’90s folk albums about rain for entire camping trips. No relationship is purely a Nancy Meyers montage. Acknowledge the flaws in both of you, but don’t hate them for it. -
Timing Deserves Respect
Cate and I didn’t fail because we lacked love; we ran out of sync. Early 20s me hadn’t yet learned how to balance ambition with vulnerability, and Cate couldn’t fathom putting roots anywhere other than “the open road.” Timing issues sting, but they don’t devalue the experience. Think of it this way: an avocado picked too soon doesn’t define avocados as a species—it just wasn’t your eating window. -
Grief Isn’t Linear, and That’s Okay
There’s no relationship road map that says, “At Month Three Post-Breakup, You Shall Feel Ecstatic Freedom.” Healing has peaks and valleys, some of which will require multiple passes before you find peace. Let yourself regain curiosity about life between the hard moments. -
New Beginnings Aren’t Betrayals
It took me a while to understand that healing doesn’t make the love you had any less real. Moving forward isn’t an insult to your past—it’s a necessary part of living authentically. If you reach a place where old wounds don’t sting anymore (even if Cate’s name pops up in casual conversation), consider it progress, not amnesia.
Section 4: Writing It Out (Literally)
True closure came for me not in completing the assignment, but in the act of writing itself. Putting emotions and memories into words does something a therapist might describe as “externalizing” (and I describe as “finally sleeping through the night after two glasses of Pinot”).
If you can’t write about your ex for an online audience (and hey, maybe that’s a blessing), I highly recommend journaling. No fancy leather-bound notebooks required—just spill it onto a scrap of paper, the Notes app, or where no one can judge your grammar. You’d be amazed at how things make sense when you see them typed out—raw, honest, already past tense.
Conclusion: The Other Side of Hard Writing
To call letting go a destination is to give false hope—there’s no singular moment where you’ll definitively feel like you’ve “made it.” Instead, it’s like hiking up a trail. You keep moving, sometimes cursing the incline, but eventually, without realizing it, you turn around to see the view. For me, that view looks gentler now: Cate taught me what depth in connection looks like, and the “sustainable heartbreak” I’ve composted has made me better for whoever comes next.
If you’re reading this and you’ve got your own “Cate” that still haunts your playlists or late-night walks, take a deep breath. You’re not alone, and you’ll eventually find your own way of writing them into your history—not your present.
“From Flirt to Familiar,” the slogan says—but don’t forget, there’s a stage in between. It’s called closure. And sometimes it’s as messy, beautiful, and complicated as the love that led you there.
