Knowing When To Let Go of Love

This past year, three of my closest friends left long-term relationships—one in divorce, and two who had been together for over a decade. Each time, it was mutual. Quiet. Not fueled by drama or blame, but guided by a shared knowing that it was time to let go. These were thoughtful, intentional decisions made by thoughtful, intentional adults. No one stormed out. No one played the villain. Each couple sat with a truth that had been building for a while: This isn’t working anymore. It’s time to move on.

Maybe it’s just the season of life I’m in — my 40s, where the stakes suddenly feel higher, self-knowledge runs deeper, and the tolerance for anything misaligned has worn thin. The decisions my friends made to leave weren’t reckless. They were careful. Painful. And rooted in growth—not in a search for more things to fill a life, but for more truth to build one on.

It’s important to say here: I’m not romanticizing divorce. I’m not here to advocate for it. My own parents divorced, and I know firsthand that it’s not easy or ideal. It’s a fracture that ripples. It changes things. And certainly, when children are involved, it’s even more complex — something I wouldn’t pretend to fully understand or speak to.

But I also know this: after their divorce, both of my parents went on to find better partners — people who suited them more fully. Sometimes, leaving isn’t a failure. It’s a self-aware act of choosing something better for yourself, and often, for everyone involved.

A scene from ‘Couples Therapy’ on Paramount Plus

In watching my friends go through what they did, I heard the same questions surface again and again—over late-night phone calls and SOS text exchanges. In the months (and years) leading up to their separations, they wrestled deeply with what it would mean to leave. These weren’t impulsive decisions; they were agonizing ones. What haunted them wasn’t just the fear of starting over—it was the fear of letting go of a story they’d been told since childhood: that staying is strength. That longevity is love. That endurance equals success.

Many of us were taught to measure the worth of a relationship by its duration. Endurance is a virtue. Even if you felt unseen. Even if you were slowly disappearing inside it. Even if staying meant abandoning the most essential parts of yourself.

What I find striking—and maybe, hopeful—is that while so many people say the new generation can’t commit, I actually see something different. They’re not taking commitment lightly at all. If anything, they’re taking it more seriously than ever. They’re not just asking, Do I love this person? They’re asking, Is this love expansive? Does it make room for who I’m becoming? They’re not getting married or having kids just because it’s the next box to check—they’re pausing, questioning, really asking themselves what kind of life they want to build, and with whom. Questions I’m not sure my generation was ever given the opportunity—or the language—to ask. They’re approaching commitment not as something to endure at all costs, but as something that should grow with them—or be honored in its ending when it no longer can.

They’re not just asking, Can we make this work?
They’re asking, Should we?
Not just, Are we staying together?
But, At what cost?
And, maybe most importantly: What would it mean to leave, even if it breaks both of our hearts?

A Galentine’s Day Celebration at my home to help celebrate newly single girlfriends

What my friends’ choices have taught me is this: we’re in a season of recalibration—a redefining of what a “successful” relationship looks like. Maybe it’s not about lasting forever. Maybe it’s about loving well, asking better questions before we even begin, and knowing when to lovingly let go.

The most surprising thing I’ve witnessed in their breakups—along with others I’ve heard about through mutual friends—is how tenderness remains. They’re not all dramatic. In fact, many are deeply respectful. Sad, yes. Complicated, always. But so often, there’s emotional maturity at the center. A willingness to be honest. A choice to part ways with care.

And that has shifted something in me. We’re not just staying because we can. We’re asking whether we should. And that question takes courage. It takes listening to yourself deeply enough to admit that something’s no longer working—even if it once did. Even if everyone else thinks it still should.

Choosing better doesn’t mean giving up on commitment. It means not staying in something that no longer reflects who you are—or who you’re becoming. It means honoring the love you had, without sacrificing where you are now. A quiet, steady revolution of the heart. Maybe the bravest kind of love there is: the kind that knows when to let go.