Unfinished, on Purpose | Gentle January Reflections on Letting Go

"I didn't come here to become new. I come to let go of what was heavy."

A gentle January musing on letting go, again

Dear you,

I thought my first blog of the year would arrive with clarity, certainty, and a shiny new plan.

Instead… it arrived quietly. A little raw. A little unfinished. Which, honestly, feels far more honest.

There’s a quiet truth I keep returning to - we’re allowed to be unfinished. And somehow, that’s where the real work begins.

Yes, we can work on ourselves. Yes, we can grow, soften, learn, unlearn. But becoming our “best version” isn’t a one-time New Year upgrade. It’s a daily practice. A returning. A listening. (Some days with grace, some days with snacks and a mild emotional wobble.)

These first days of January, I felt the pull to be really honest with myself. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just… truthful.

So I did what I always do when I need grounding, perspective, and a bit of soul-sorting.

I drove to my happy place - the Lake District.

Three hours each way. Plenty of space to talk. And feel. And unravel.

On that drive, I did my own version of “chair therapy.”

If you’ve not heard of it, it’s usually done by placing an empty chair in front of you and imagining someone sitting there - one by one - and saying everything. The unsaid. The heavy. The hurt. The truth.

Since I was driving, I placed them gently on the passenger seat instead. One by one. People I needed to release. Moments that stayed too long in my nervous system. Versions of myself I had pushed too hard. Places where I hadn’t been as gentle with myself as I deserved.

I spoke. I cried. I raised my voice when it needed raising. I softened when love asked for it. It was painful. But it was real.

And this is something I’ve learned - real separation doesn’t happen through anger. It happens through love and sadness. Through feeling it fully, instead of carrying it silently. That day, I didn’t deny my pain. I walked straight through it.

And in doing so, I peeled off a layer of emotional weight I’d been carrying without realising how heavy it had become.

"Nature didn't fix me. She simply held me long enough to soften."

Here’s the gentle science bit (promise I’ll keep it light):

When resentment sits inside us, it doesn’t stay quiet. The brain keeps replaying it - chewing it over like an old worry it thinks we still need for “protection.” So we give energy to the person, the situation, the memory… again and again. Not because we want to - but because the nervous system doesn’t know when it’s safe to let go.

In simple terms? Resentment is expensive. It drains our energy while convincing us it’s helping.

Letting go doesn’t mean what happened was okay. It means we stop paying for it with our peace.

So instead of feeding that loop, I chose to place my energy back where it belongs -  on myself. On life. On faith. On the quiet work of becoming lighter.

When I finally arrived, I walked. Slowly. Mountains holding their quiet strength. Waterfalls melting snow - and something in me softened watching that. Pain doesn’t disappear by force… it melts when it’s allowed to move.

The morning sun filled my closed eyes with warmth, and I imagined that light settling inside me - not fixing me, just meeting me. The trees were still resting. No rush. No proof required. Just trusting that spring will arrive when it’s ready.

And then a little robin danced near me - bold, curious, completely unbothered by my human spirals. I smiled, because somehow it felt like a message:

You’re in the right place. You’re doing enough. Keep going.

There is always a way to become - not through pressure, but through presence. Not by rushing forward, but by releasing what weighs us down.

The drive home was quieter. Lighter. I spent hours in silence, listening gently - and mostly finding nothing there. Just space. And that felt like a gift.

The next morning? A big smile. A soft body. A lighter heart.

Did some resentment sneak back in? Of course it did. Healing isn’t a clean, permanent erase. It’s a practice. And that’s okay. We are allowed to be unfinished -

in all the beautiful, honest ways.

If you’ve ever felt the pull to try chair therapy (literal chair or passenger seat version), I’d love to know. And if not - maybe this is just your reminder that letting go doesn’t have to be loud or perfect. It just has to be true.

Before You go..

If this season feels quiet, unfinished, or tender for you - you’re not behind. You’re becoming. Some doors close loudly. Others close through tears, silence, and love.

Let January be a place to rest - not perform.

To listen - not rush.

To trust that what’s loosening was never meant to stay forever.

With love and light,

Eva

"Some healing doesn't arrive as answers - only space."