The Freedom in Letting Go
9:01 AM—Ethan handed me my latte with a smirk this morning—no foam art, just a messy scribble that vaguely resembled a star. I laughed and didn’t even reach for my phone to Snapchat it. Just drank it, lopsided scribble and all.
Because here’s what hit me last night: I don’t need to document every little thing to prove it mattered.
I’m sitting here flipping through my sketchbook, landing on the page where I finally ripped out that stubborn design I’d been forcing for weeks. Not out of frustration, but relief. It wasn’t working, and instead of clinging to it because I’d already put so much time in, I let it go. And the blank page feels lighter than any half-finished idea ever could.
Here’s what’s clicking:
1. I’m not afraid of empty space anymore. Liam hasn’t texted since the potato sculpture bit, and guess what? I haven’t either. No "Hey, last night was fun!" no "We should do it again!" Just… silence. And it’s not awkward. It’s just what it is. A month ago, I would’ve convinced myself silence meant disinterest. Now? Maybe it just means nothing happened. And that’s fine.
2. My creativity thrives when I stop forcing it. That ripped-out design? I woke up at 3 AM with three new ideas—all simpler, all truer to what I actually want to make. Not what I think I should make. Turns out, clutter doesn’t inspire—it suffocates.
3. I’m done performing peace. October in LA is golden-hour light and soft sweatshirt weather. I used to stage my "casual" coffee-shop moments for the ‘gram. Now? My nails are chipped, my hair’s in a real messy bun (not the "I tried" kind), and I’m writing this on my Notes app instead of my aesthetic planner. And it feels better.
Ethan just messed up another order and groaned, "I swear I’m usually good at this." I used to jump in with over-the-top reassurance—"No, you’re amazing!"—like his coffee skills were my responsibility to validate. Today, I just grinned and said, "Dude, it’s Monday. Cut yourself some slack."
Growth isn’t about holding on tighter. It’s about realizing what deserves your grip—and what doesn’t.
xx Mandy
(P.S. That blank page? Already filling it with something wildly imperfect. And loving it.)