When Letting Go is the Only Way to Love: Ending the Cycle of Leaving and Returning

It’s a strange kind of heartbreak when someone you love leaves.

But it’s an even stranger pain when they keep coming back—when the goodbyes and the homecomings blur together, and you can’t tell where the leaving ends and the staying begins.

That’s been my reality for years. A relationship defined by its comings and goings, marked more by its absences than its presence. A marriage where the door swung open and shut so many times I lost count. And with every exit and every return, I held on—hoping that this time would be different. That this time, the door would finally close behind us, and we’d choose each other without hesitation.

But I’ve come to understand something about love: it can’t exist in the in-between. You can’t build a life on half-presences and half-promises. Loving someone who leaves—someone who treats your heart like a waiting room instead of a home—is a kind of self-betrayal I no longer want to model for my children.

When Holding On Hurts More Than Letting Go

For years, I tried to hold our family together—bending myself to bridge the gaps that grew wider with each separation, trying to be enough so that leaving wouldn’t feel so tempting. I thought I was showing my children resilience, teaching them that love means fighting for each other no matter what. But what I was really showing them was how to settle for a love that’s conditional. A love that only shows up when it’s easy.

The truth is, I wish things had been different. I wish we could have built a home that felt whole and steady—a place where the kids could feel rooted. But wishing doesn’t rewrite reality. For all our attempts to stay, we kept slipping away from each other. We spent more time in the ache of separation than in the comfort of togetherness.

So now, I’m making the hardest choice I’ve ever made. I’m choosing to let the door close. Not just for me, but for all of us. Because I want to show my children that love doesn’t mean staying no matter what. Sometimes, love means knowing when to stop fighting the inevitable—and when to walk away with grace.

Teaching My Children the Right Kind of Love

My daughters—my wife’s daughters from a previous relationship—mean the world to me. I’ve loved them as fiercely and deeply as if they were my own. It breaks something in me to imagine not seeing them every day, not being there for every scraped knee, every bedtime story, every piece of homework spread across the kitchen table. I wanted to be their constant in a world full of changes.

But the truth is, we became another form of instability. Another set of packed suitcases, another “home until it isn’t.” That kind of uncertainty—never knowing if someone is truly there to stay—is a wound that runs deep. I can’t keep reopening it.

So, as much as it shatters me, I have to release them too. They deserve stability, even if it doesn’t include me. They deserve to see that real love doesn’t walk away and come back over and over—it stays. Or, when it can’t stay, it leaves fully. Because a love that’s worthy of them is one that’s steady, present, and safe.

And perhaps the most important lesson I can leave them with is this: love yourself enough to close the door on the people who keep leaving. It’s not your job to convince someone to stay.

Facing What Comes Next: The Pain of Moving On

Letting go of this cycle doesn’t mean preparing for a custody battle anymore—because there isn’t one. My soon-to-be ex has made it clear that she doesn’t want to be my son’s parent. So instead, I’m facing a different kind of battle: the one that comes with supporting and protecting him from the ache of not being chosen.

He’s only three, but he’s intuitive and smart. He feels energy before words are spoken. He knows when something is off. And while I can’t shield him from the truth, I can walk him through it gently. I refuse to lie when he asks, “Where’s Mommy?” because pretending won’t heal what’s already been broken. What I can do is help him build a world where love isn’t something he has to chase.

My job now is to make sure he knows he’s whole, even when someone else couldn’t see his worth. To remind him that being loved fully isn’t something he has to earn—it’s something he deserves simply because he exists.

A household isn’t whole just because both parents are present. Peace, consistency, and love are what make a home. And that’s what I’m choosing to give him—every single day.

Choosing to Let the Door Close

Part of me still wishes this story had ended differently. I wanted so badly for us to choose each other completely—for our son to grow up surrounded by the kind of love that felt steady and sure. But wanting doesn’t change what is. And staying in a cycle of leaving and returning doesn’t create the kind of peace I want to build for us.

So I’m letting the door close. Not with anger, but with love. Because sometimes, letting go isn’t about giving up—it’s about giving space for healing.

This isn’t the end of our story. It’s the beginning of a new one—one where my son and I get to create a life that feels safe, peaceful, and full of joy that doesn’t depend on someone else’s presence. One where he’ll learn that love can be soft and stable. That it doesn’t walk away. That it stays.

Because the truth is, I deserve to be chosen every day.

So does he. And so do my girls.

Letting go is never easy, but I’m choosing to believe that it’s a door closing on something that’s been hurting us all for too long. And in its place, we can finally begin to heal.

—To every heart that’s learning to let go, one release at a time.

XoXo,

Sia