let go (2025)
An original poem, a reflection, and a life update about the tangible symbols in our life that signify when we're letting go.
let go
My tongue ring slipped out
at the end of the day—
not pulled, not lost,
just done.
Right before,
I bled in the shower.
From the place they had to examine
just to make sure
I could keep trying.
The water ran hot.
I stood there thinking
about everything I've held onto
and how much it hurts
to keep holding.
My body is tired.
My heart too.
But they both still beat,
even when I don't know why.
I think about the people I've let in—
what I wanted from them,
what I gave,
what I didn't know how to ask for.
How even when I wasn't alone,
I still felt it.
How sometimes being around people
only makes the quiet louder.
And I still want love.
Not just something pretty—
something real.
Someone who sees me
and stays,
not to complete me
but to witness
this life I'm learning
to hold gently.
I want to be wanted
gently, peacefully
(already whole in myself)—
wanted like the earth wants rain,
not from emptiness
but for the blooming.
The bleeding will stop.
The soreness will fade.
Maybe one day,
so will the doubt.
But not today.
Today I let something go—
a small metal thing
that no longer belongs.
And tomorrow,
maybe I won't need
to be so afraid
of being my own home.
🩸 Reflection
I wrote this after a particularly rough few days, though really, it's been a rough few years.
Last Thursday, I had a sonohysterogram as part of my fertility journey. If you've never had one, imagine someone threading a catheter through your cervix to fill your uterus with saline while they ultrasound you. No anesthesia. It was excruciating. I'm still bleeding and sore. In mid-July, I'll have surgery to remove the polyp they found—the one that might help my body say "yes" to what I'm asking of it.
The following day happened to be my brother's birthday, but what also marked it for me was helping my friend give himself his first T (testosterone) shot. I felt such pride and joy for him—and such a complex ache. I'd started T myself last fall, gotten my tongue ring right after as a kind of celebration of becoming. But earlier this year, I stopped T, choosing the possibility of pregnancy over the changes I'd barely begun to explore. That evening, after watching my friend step into his journey as I stepped away from mine, my tongue ring fell out. Just like that. Done.
My therapist and psychiatrist are so happy for me that I've made these decisions. They see what I'm still learning to see: that this is the queerest part of my journey so far. Not the testosterone or the tongue ring or the pronouns, but this—choosing what my body needs over what anyone else might expect. Giving myself permission to want contradictory things. To pursue pregnancy while grieving the transition I'm pausing. To be imperfect and changing and still worthy of my own love.
Queerness, I'm learning, isn't just about who we love or how we present. Sometimes it's about having the courage to choose the life that feels most true, even when it doesn't fit any neat narrative.
My brother was visiting last week—the first time I'd seen him in far too long. Having him here lit up my mind in ways I'd forgotten were possible, but it also exhausted me completely. I pushed through because I missed him, because the connection felt more important than rest. My body is still collecting on that debt.
I don't regret it because my brother is my favorite person in the world. Yeah, I know I'm a relationship anarchist and non-hierarchical polyamorist... but here I am. Naming one person as my favorite. Wanting a child (or two). Wanting nesting partner(s). The contradictions don't cancel each other out—they just make me human.
Since my marriage ended, I've been trying to understand what safety feels like. I think often about something Nikita Gill wrote (paraphrased): "You cannot turn people into homes. People are rivers, ever changing, ever flowing." What does home mean when you can't build it in someone else? The past few years have been a masterclass in learning this truth—that no matter how much you want to rest somewhere outside yourself, the only lasting refuge is the one you build within.
Dating feels impossible now. I can get dates, go on them, smile and make conversation. But I rarely feel connected. When I do feel something, there are always insurmountable incompatibilities. I keep wondering if I'm too much, or if I'm asking for something no one wants to give. I'm tired of navigating this alone.
But here's what I'm learning: the exhaustion might be the point. Maybe we get so tired of holding everything—the old piercings, the old patterns, the old ways of seeking safety in others—that we finally just... let go. Not dramatically. Not because we're strong enough. But because we simply can't hold on anymore.
I want to be wanted, yes. But I'm learning to want myself first. To build a home in my own viscera, even while it all aches. To trust that the right people will see this home I'm building and want to visit, not because they need shelter, but because they recognize another person who has learned to be their own refuge.
The bleeding will stop. The surgery will happen. Maybe I'll have a child, maybe I won't. Maybe I'll find the kind of love that can witness without possessing, maybe I'll keep learning to witness myself.
But today, I am learning to let something go. A small metal thing that no longer belonged. And maybe that's enough.
If you're also learning to be your own home—tired, bleeding, hoping—know that you're not alone in this. Your letting go might look different. Maybe it's not about relationships, fertility, transition, or piercings at all. But we all have our small metal things, the symbols we carry until we don't need them anymore. We're all just trying to release what no longer serves us, one small thing at a time.