Narrator: Imagine waking up one morning to the familiar silence of a phone that hasn't buzzed. There’s no "good morning" text waiting, no small digital sign that you were the first person on someone's mind. In that quiet moment, a profound sense of loneliness can settle in, a feeling that your worth is tied to the validation you receive from others. This experience, and the larger, more tumultuous journey of heartbreak it represents, is the raw, emotional landscape explored in Heidi Priebe’s collection of essays, This Is Me Letting You Go. The book doesn't offer easy answers or quick fixes. Instead, it provides something far more valuable: company. It serves as a guide through the messy, non-linear, and deeply human process of moving on, accepting a future you didn't plan, and learning to let go of pain, expectations, and even the person you thought you couldn't live without.

Narrator: A common refrain after a relationship ends is that it was simply the "wrong time." It’s a comforting thought, suggesting that under different circumstances, things might have worked out. However, Priebe argues this is a fallacy. The right people, she posits, are timeless. They don't create conflicts with your life; they inspire you to rewrite your plans entirely.

Consider the story of an aspiring musician and a traveling photographer who meet and feel an instant, powerful connection. Their lifestyles, however, are fundamentally at odds. She needs stability in one city to build her career, while he needs the freedom to roam the globe. They try to make it work, but the distance and differing priorities create constant friction. They eventually break up, citing the "wrong timing." Years later, they realize the timing was just a symptom of a deeper incompatibility. The right person wouldn't have felt like a choice against your life's ambitions; they would have felt like the beginning of a new, shared adventure. Priebe challenges the notion that timing is an external force to be blamed, suggesting instead that when a connection is truly right, you don't find the time—you make it. To say the timing is wrong is often just a kinder way of saying the person isn't worth the inconvenience.

Narrator: So much of modern life is subtly influenced by the search for love. Priebe asks readers to engage in a powerful thought experiment: What if you knew, with absolute certainty, that you would never find "The One"? After the initial devastation, what would change? Would you take that solo trip you’ve been putting off? Would you move to a new city for a dream job without considering a partner? Would you pursue hobbies purely for your own joy?

The exercise reveals how the quest for love can act as a restraint, holding us back from our full potential. We wait for someone else to show up and change our lives, to love our flaws, and to make us whole. Priebe’s radical proposal is to stop waiting and become the love of your own life. This means building a life so fulfilling and vibrant on your own terms that a partner becomes a wonderful addition, not a necessary component. The ironic truth, she notes, is that this very act of confident, unrestrained living—of not worrying about who you’re attracting—is what makes a person most magnetic. True fulfillment isn't found in being completed by another, but in becoming so complete in yourself that your energy is a light for others.

Narrator: Society often imposes an unspoken timeline on grief. We're expected to "get over it" in a neat, linear fashion. Priebe dismantles this myth, explaining that letting go is not a single, decisive action but a series of thousands of tiny, often painful, releases. It’s a continuous process, not a one-time event.

This is perfectly illustrated in what could be called the "soup aisle revelation." Months after a difficult breakup, a woman is walking through the grocery store. She turns a corner and sees her ex-partner's favorite brand of tomato soup on sale. For a fleeting moment, her hand reaches for it out of pure habit, a muscle memory from a life she no longer lives. In that pause, she is faced with a choice: cling to the familiar comfort of the past or accept the present. She consciously decides to walk away, leaving the soup on the shelf. It’s a small, un-dramatic moment, but it’s a monumental act of letting go. Healing is composed of countless such moments—choosing a different route home, deleting a photo, or hearing a song and surviving the memory. It’s about having one foot on the gas and the other on the brake, accelerating and releasing in turn, and forgiving yourself for the days you can only manage to coast.

Narrator: In the complex dynamics of modern dating, there's an unspoken premium on appearing cool, detached, and being the one who cares less. It’s seen as a position of power, a way to protect oneself from vulnerability. Priebe argues this is a hollow victory. A life lived with apathy and indifference is a life devoid of the very passion and enthusiasm that make it worth living.

She urges readers to reject this game and instead choose to be the person who cares more. Be the one who sends the first text, who admits you miss someone, who shows up with your whole heart, even at the risk of it being bruised. While caring less might protect you from pain, it also shields you from true joy, connection, and fulfillment. The world, Priebe contends, doesn't need another indifferent person playing it safe. It needs people who are fiercely passionate, who aren't afraid to want things, and who are willing to fight for what they believe in. It’s better to live a life with a worn-out heart that loved too strongly and felt too fiercely than to arrive at the end with one that was kept pristine and unused.

Narrator: When someone hurts you deeply, the anger that follows can feel righteous and necessary. It’s fueled by a desire for justice, a belief that if you just stay angry enough, the past can somehow be fixed or the other person will be forced to make amends. But Priebe offers a different perspective: holding onto anger is like continually picking at a scab, preventing the wound from healing in the hope that you won't be left with a scar.

She uses a powerful analogy to reframe the act of forgiveness. Imagine a hurricane—an event you didn't cause and couldn't control—has torn through the city of your life, leaving nothing but ruins. Standing in the wreckage, you have a choice. You can scream at the sky, demanding the hurricane return and fix what it broke, or you can pick up the first piece of rubble and begin the long, arduous process of rebuilding. Forgiveness, in this light, has nothing to do with the hurricane. It is not about condoning the destruction or letting the person who hurt you "off the hook." It is the moment you stop waiting for an apology that may never come and instead take responsibility for your own healing. It is the act of giving up hope for a different past and choosing to build your own future, scars and all.

Narrator: Ultimately, This Is Me Letting You Go teaches that the process of moving on is not about forgetting someone, but about remembering yourself. It’s a journey of returning to your own life, not as a placeholder until someone new arrives, but as the main character. The book’s most profound takeaway is that the person you are waiting for to come back and save you is, and always has been, you.

The challenge Priebe leaves with her readers is to embrace the discomfort of growth. It's easy to stay in the familiar pain of waiting, but true healing requires showing up for the life you have right now, even if it’s not the one you wanted. It requires you to be the one who rebuilds the city, who forgives yourself for not seeing the storm coming, and who finally understands that letting go is the ultimate act of taking your power back.