Letting go will teach you
the art
of being soft and humble,
yet powerful and free.

Spring often makes me think about growth: the kind that’s quiet, just under the surface—roots stretching downward, unseen—and the kind that visibly bursts into bloom.

I don’t usually write about personal relationships, but lately the future of mine has been on my mind. While I’m planting roots deeper into the life I’ve been building here, my partner is just beginning to spread his wings. And somewhere in that in-between space, we’re learning how to stay connected as everything around us—and within us—shifts.

I moved to the city I’m in now with the intention of settling down in small but significant ways. I’ve been building rhythms that feel like home, noticing which friendships are evolving into chosen family, and saying yes to projects and places that give me a sense of belonging. It’s not flashy growth. It’s not big or bold. But it’s steady and it’s real. And for the first time in a while, I’m not restlessly looking ahead; I’m learning how to be present and grounded where I am.

At the same time, I’ve watched my partner lean into a version of himself that I deeply admire. He’s chasing opportunities he’s long dreamed about and finally stepping into something new, brave, and unknown. He’s flying, and I’m seriously so proud. But I’d be lying if I said it’s all been easy to process.

Because while he’s launching into motion, I’m staying still. And stillness, when someone you love is moving away—even temporarily—can carry a quiet ache. We’re not breaking up. We’re not falling apart. But we are, in a very real way, preparing to live in separate orbits for a while. And that brings a grief I didn’t expect—the kind that sneaks in while cuddling and watching a silly TV show or cooking together and making a mess we know we’ll put off till later, knowing that soon these moments will take more effort to come by.

We’ve talked about how we’ll stay close—how we’ll communicate, how we’ll visit each other often. And right now, we mean it. Love will look a little different—more intentional, more stretched. But it’s still love. Maybe even a deeper love, because it’s being tested and chosen all over again.

This season is teaching me that roots and wings don’t have to be in conflict. They’re both crucial. Both necessary. And while it would be easier if we were growing in the same direction, there’s something tender and brave about learning how to grow apart without growing away.

We’re not losing each other. We’re learning how to hold each other differently.

And maybe that’s what this stage of life is about: trusting that some bonds don’t weaken with distance—they deepen.