Sometimes Fires Burn Out, But Embers Still Glow Beneath the Ashes

I can’t help but find something breathtakingly beautiful in grief. The very ache of it feels sacred. Grief, for all its purposes, exists as love’s shadow. If I don’t grieve things, they don’t feel real to me. And if they’re not real, they don’t matter. And if they don’t matter—then what’s the point of anything at all?

Grief is palpable—it gives weight to memories that would otherwise drift downstream. It makes things mean something. Even so, you can’t trap its meaning in a jar just to claim it was once yours. Meaning isn’t something you possess; it’s something you meet in the moments that ask you to feel. That’s why it’s important to find ways to let go—or at the very least, to move on.

Have you ever considered the difference between moving on and letting go?

Moving on is external—it’s the act of stepping forward. It means changing behaviors, adopting new patterns, cultivating presence instead of living for the past. It’s cerebral, mechanical, often fueled by duty. It speaks to the resilience of the human spirit.

Letting go, on the other hand, is internal. It’s the act of loosening your grip on the things you can’t control—expectations, people, past events, or even the hope for a different outcome. It holds reverence for the past, absent the longing for it. It requires deeper awareness; it’s the delicate thread that braids your present self with who you once were and who you’re still becoming. At its core, it’s full integration.

The truth is, most of us eventually learn how to move on, even when it feels impossible. But very few of us ever learn how to let go.

What once was may be lost to time and circumstance, but look closely, and you’ll still see the scorch marks—proof that fire once touched this place, that something burned bright enough to leave a trace.

Sometimes fires burn out, but embers still glow beneath the ashes.