Becoming Whole Without Closure

There’s a particular ache that lives in the chest when you realize you may never get the closure you hoped for. It’s quiet, but it lingers. Not sharp like heartbreak, but dull and deep, like carrying a memory that never quite got to finish its sentence.

For me, it came in waves. Especially with someone I loved deeply. I don’t even know if I have full closure with them. I’ve tried to find it in so many ways—through running, through rebuilding, through reflection. At one point, I thought I could shape my entire life around never seeing them again, never being reminded of the pain. I didn’t want to look in the mirror and hear that voice in my head saying I wasn’t good enough. I didn’t want to live another version of myself that didn’t feel chosen.

But something started to shift. Every mile I ran, every weight I lifted, every small act of care I gave myself—it felt like I wasn’t just running away from the pain, I was running toward something too. Toward a version of myself that didn’t need closure from someone else to feel complete. And honestly? That started to feel more like closure than any conversation could ever give me.

Of course, I held out hope for the apology. The text. The moment. But some moments never come. And some apologies never arrive. A part of me still wonders if I messed it all up—if the boundaries I didn’t set well enough in the beginning are the reason it all went wrong. I know it’s not all my fault, but I can own the parts I regret. And that’s its own kind of grief—grieving the person I was in that relationship, and the one I wanted to be.

It’s a pattern I’ve seen more than once. People leave, disappear, or drift, and somehow I’m left holding the pieces. Left carrying the weight of the goodbye that never came. And what hurts isn’t just the absence, it’s the feeling that I have to be the one to initiate the healing. To be the better person. Because people are scared of me? Or ashamed? And that’s confusing—because what am I giving off that makes people think I’m so untouchable?

It made me question everything. Who am I, really? What do people actually think of me? I had to come back to a place of radical belief: that people love me until they show me otherwise. And when they do? I pivot. I don’t chase, I don’t beg. I redirect.

The real shift happened when I stopped asking who failed me and started asking who I was becoming. Who do I want to be—not in response to heartbreak, but in response to my own soul? Who do I want to show the world I am? Not bitter. Not waiting. Just real. Honest. Becoming.

I tried cord cutting rituals. I wrote letters I never sent. I begged the universe for signs. I sat in silence, searching for peace. But nothing changed until I did. Until I started asking different questions: What version of me is living the life I dream about? What patterns am I repeating, and what would it look like to step outside them?

That’s what self-closure really is. It’s not just deciding to move on. It’s diving deep into the root of who you are and choosing who you’re going to become—on purpose.

Grounding myself hasn’t always been easy. Some days, I don’t know what it even means. But I try to treat myself like a tree. My foundation is me. My roots stretch down into the dreams I hold, the ones that haven’t bloomed yet. The storms bend me, prune me, break branches I thought I needed. But each season teaches me something. Each loss makes room for new fruit.

I write a lot of letters. To others. To myself. To versions of me that needed someone to say, "You’re doing great. Keep going." It helps. Even if I never send them. Especially if I don’t. It helps to get the pain and the grief and the unspoken questions out of my body. Onto paper. Into the ether.

And most of all? I’ve made peace with not knowing. It’s hard. So hard. But maybe the most loving thing I can do for someone is to let them go. Let them be who they want to be. That’s what freedom looks like. That’s what love looks like, even when it ends.

My definition of love hasn’t changed entirely. But now I can recognize when it feels safe—and when it doesn’t. I don’t set myself on fire to keep others warm anymore. That was a brutal lesson, but a necessary one. To love is still to risk, to open, to feel deeply. But not at the cost of myself.

One moment I’m really proud of? I had to set a hard boundary with a good friend. It scared me. I thought it would ruin the friendship. But I stayed calm. I said what I needed. And we figured it out together. We both grew from it. That’s the kind of person I want to be—not avoidant, not explosive. Just honest and rooted.

To move forward whole doesn’t mean the past is clean. It means you are. And relationships will always be messy. But the one I have with myself? That’s the one I’m learning how to tend first. You can’t half-love yourself and expect full love from someone else.

If you’re stuck in the loop, waiting for closure? I see you. I’m so sorry. It hurts like hell. But take your time. Mourn. Scream. Fall apart. But one day? Get up. Get off the floor. No one is coming to do it for you. No one can heal you but you.

And when you do? You’ll realize you didn’t need their permission to heal. You just needed your own.