EVERY TIME YOU EXPAND, SOMETHING FALLS AWAY

I was thinking about something earlier.

Every time you expand, something falls away.

A habit.
A person.
A version of you that just... can’t come with you.

And we usually call that loss.

But the more I sit with it, the more I think it’s not really loss.
It’s alignment.

Still — and this feels important — even when it’s alignment, it doesn’t mean it’s easy.

Because sometimes you need space to grieve what you outgrow.

And that part gets skipped a lot.

Sometimes what you outgrow is weight.
Sometimes it’s a way of coping.
Sometimes it’s a version of you that protected you when life felt harder than it does now.

That version wasn’t wrong.
She wasn’t broken.
She was doing her job.

And just because you don’t need her in the same way anymore doesn’t mean she didn’t matter.

I think that’s what feels uncomfortable about growth sometimes.

Not the next level.
Not the expansion itself.

But the moment you realize you’re leaving something familiar behind — even if that familiar thing was heavy.

There can be a weird mix of relief and sadness at the same time.

And both are allowed.

Midlife really brings this into focus.
Because by now, you’ve lived enough to know that becoming isn’t just about adding more things to your life.

It’s also about letting go.

Not dramatically.
Not forcefully.

Just honestly.

You don’t bulldoze your way into the next version of yourself.
You grow into her.

And that takes pauses.
It takes quiet moments.
It takes letting your body catch up to the change your mind already made.

If something has fallen away recently and you feel a little unsettled about it, that doesn’t mean you’re going backwards.

It probably means you’re integrating.

Outgrowing something isn’t betrayal.
It’s discernment.

And grief doesn’t mean you made the wrong decision.
It just means you’re letting the transition land instead of rushing past it.

Nothing is missing.

Something is completing.

And that’s usually how the next version of you makes room to arrive.