Transcription
You say you want closure, but what you really want is acknowledgement. Acknowledgement of your effort, your time, your worth. You want them to say something that shows that you weren't crazy, that you didn't make it all up, that your presence was meaningful, felt, and needed.
You tell yourself that you just want to see them, to talk to them one last time, to hear them, just so that you can sort it out and end it like mature people. And while that's not a bad thing, listen, it's human to want to be recognised, to want to be thanked; it's human to want proof that you didn't waste your time and that at some point, if only once, you mattered and still do.
But I want to ask you this: How long are you going to keep yourself in captivity, waiting for someone who doesn't have the key to set you free? How long are you going to float in limbo, outsourcing your worth, suspending your existence, holding your breath just to hear the words, "I see what I did to you." Or, "You were right, I regret it, I miss you." Or, "I was wrong, this is why it happened."
The truth is, you don't want closure. You want a do-over. You want redemption. You want a different outcome, a space where you didn't feel stripped of your power, where the wind wasn't knocked out of you, and where you get to have your say. Because if you really wanted closure, the ending, no matter how abrupt, painful, unforeseen, or unclear, would have been all the information you needed.
This is not easy to accept. But the idea of getting closure from someone else is all about control. When we lose relationships in ways we can't understand or make sense of, something fractures within us. The parts of our brains that crave certainty kick into overdrive. You need it to make sense because just yesterday, things were fine; they said they loved you; your friendship was going well. And if they could just tell you why or what you could change, you'd be able to move on.
But there's something missing from this perspective: The truth that you cannot control another person. We often struggle to control ourselves. Why would we think we could control or change someone else? What makes you think that you can get something from them that they didn't give to you in the first place? It's an illusion of control. The person you want closure from already gave it to you in whatever way they did. That was their capacity. That was their limit. That was the extent of their courage or fear or whatever you want to call it. Your refusal to accept this is about you. You're not ready to let go, and that's okay. But if you want to free yourself, you need to be honest about what's happening here. What's happening inside? Call it what it is. Your need for closure is your nervous system begging for safety.
If you want to move on, you need to internalize these truths: One, in every situation, people will give you what they have, but may not be able to give you what you need. Two, in every situation, you can decide to receive what people have, but it's your job to give yourself what you need. If someone gives you a version of closure that leaves you confused and disoriented, it's your responsibility to build the closure that will ground you. Whatever they didn't say or do, whether they ghosted you, gave you the silent treatment instead of being honest, or acted like nothing happened, you have the power to fill in the gaps of that story. They don't get to control what that narrative is. Maybe they were upset with something you did two months ago, or maybe you're replaying things in your mind and you're wondering if in that moment you acted too much, you said or did too much. Maybe they were overwhelmed by their own pain, unable to process or communicate, but here's the reality: whatever their reason was, it was more about their survival than it was about you.
How do I know this? Because conflict is a part of community. People who are willing to fight with you, to talk things out, to find common ground, are people who still want to be in communion with you. The silence is the closure. They are done. The lack of clarity is the closure. They have nothing else to say to you, my love. They don't want a final conversation because they've already closed the chapter. But you're still stuck on the page. They've left the room. The door is wide open, but there you are, standing, dazed, waiting for someone to come tap you out. You are waiting for permission, and that's the problem. Someone who won't talk to you doesn't get to decide or control the story you tell yourself about why they won't. Tap yourself out. No one is coming. Now let's do the work. Earn the grief you've been avoiding. It's over, and it sucks. You probably hate them right now, and maybe you blame yourself. It's okay. Cry. Be sad.
Closure doesn't come from seeking answers. It comes from letting go of the fantasy of what could have been and focusing on what is. Okay? Focus on what is. Now write that letter or text, but to yourself. If writing feels like too much, make a video diary or record a voice note. What were you hoping they would say? You know, that you deserved better, that you deserved honesty, that they can see your pain. Is there a way you can say that to yourself? What are the thoughts floating in your head? Is there a way to expel them? You don't have to be generous or pleasant. Write your pain, your fears, your love, your longing. Write your pettiness. Be petty if you want. Whatever it is that comes up for you, speak it. This is your closure, not anyone else's. Say whatever you need to say. It's your page. So rage. This is the closest you'll ever get to saying your piece.
After you've emptied your mind, detach your words from their recognition. You existed before you met them. Yes. And it's wrong to think that they took your spirit and fire when they walked away. No one can have that kind of power over you without your permission. No one should. This is your moment to reclaim your energy, to take back what you gave away. You were worthy before they arrived, and you remain worthy now, even in their absence. Yes. Your story, your feelings were real, even if they never confirm it. They don't have to understand your pain for it to be valid. Okay. Now it's time to rewrite the narrative.
When you're operating from your wounds, your automatic response to loss or rejection is, "What does this say about me?" You assume other people's actions are connected to something inherently wrong with you, but there are infinite reasons why people do what they do. It's not your work to untangle that for them. The only questions you should ask are, "What did I learn from this relationship? Did it teach me something about my values, about my creed, about myself? Did I suppress parts of myself in it? What can I do now that they are gone? What gets to rise and shine now?" Answer those questions, then create your own ritual of release and stick to it. I know someone who writes their pain down and burns it. You can burn your letter, say it out loud, write a love note to yourself, do whatever works for you. For me, my ritual of letting go is deleting every trace of that person. You have to be a decorated secret agent to find proof that they existed near me. I'm not asking you to do it my way, do what works for you, but I'm just telling you my way, okay? And yes, you think about them, you will hurt, you will long for them, but each time you choose yourself, your closure becomes part of your healing, and healing is not linear. It's a decision you might have to make over and over again.
I want to say this: letting go doesn't mean forgetting. It doesn't mean pretending it never happened or that it didn't matter. You're not pretending you're okay with what happened. You are choosing your peace. You are choosing yourself. You're not erasing the past. You are refusing to let it control your future. You are setting yourself free. You're saying, "I'm allowed to move forward, even with unanswered questions." And you gain so much from releasing what doesn't want you: Clarity, time, the energy to pour into what and who wants you, what and who you love, the freedom to explore, to create, to build. You stop ruminating. You stop looping. You open yourself up to new possibilities, new love, new community. You become your own source of truth. You're no longer waiting for someone to finish the story for you. You're writing your own ending.
I know it's easier said than done, but it's possible. And it doesn't require you to be special or unique. You just need to become someone who never lets go of their own hands, especially when others do. You are your own primary assignment, so act like it. Let this be the moment you stop waiting for their call, for their text back, or whatever it is you've been holding on to. Let today be the day you set yourself free, even without the apology, even without the answers, even without the ending you thought you deserved. It will be a tragedy, a mighty tragedy, to let someone who is done with you leave with parts of you in tow. Yes, you might feel shattered. Yes, you might feel fragmented. But you cannot let them take pieces of you. Hold your aching parts. Nurture them. Give yourself the life you deserve. Stop waiting around. Keep moving forward. One day you'll find yourself whole again, okay?
As always, it's been an absolute pleasure. My name is Pearl Girl, and I'll see you in the next video.