A Reflection: The Lesson the Moon Taught Me About Letting Go

Standing in the moonlight

There are nights when the sky speaks louder than people do.

It was one of those nights a thick, quiet kind of evening where the air felt dense with memory.

I had gone outside just to breathe.

I didn’t have a plan.

I just needed to not be inside, not be on my phone, not be anywhere but under the sky.

My thoughts had been looping all day.

You know that kind of spiral when your mind gets caught in what you should have done, what you wish you could feel, what used to be.

I kept trying to shake it off, but everything felt stuck.

Heavy.

Like no matter how many affirmations or deep breaths I took, my body just wasn’t ready to let go.

Then I looked up.

The moon wasn’t full.

It wasn’t glowing the way people romanticize it in poems.

It was waning shrinking into shadow.

But it was clear.

Steady.

Unapologetic about not being in its brightest phase.

And suddenly, that felt like an invitation.

For so long after Derek passed, I felt like I had to be okay. I needed to prove to myself, to the world, that I was strong.

That I could shine. That I could still be full even when I felt hollow.

But that night, standing under the half-lit moon, I remembered something I had almost forgotten.

Even the moon lets go.

It waxes and wanes.

It disappears and re-emerges.

It doesn’t resist its phases.

It doesn't apologize for needing the dark to rest.

And it doesn’t try to stay full for anyone else’s comfort.

Letting go isn't a one-time thing.

It’s something I have to practice over and over again especially in grief, especially when I’m trying to control how signs show up, or how healing is supposed to look.

Some of the most powerful moments in my journey with Derek’s presence didn’t happen when I tried to force a connection.

They happened when I stopped trying so hard.

When I just… looked up.

When I softened the noise in my mind.

When I exhaled.

That’s when the signs would come a license plate with a perfect message, a song playing at the exact right time, the flicker of lights at 3:41AM.

That’s when I realized: letting go isn’t the absence of love.

It’s the trust that love will find you again, in a new way.

If you’re reading this and feeling the tightness of holding on to a person, a past version of yourself, or even an outcome I invite you to try this practice from my course, Everyday Alchemy: Let the moon be your mirror.

Go outside tonight or tomorrow and simply look at her.

Don’t try to make meaning.

Just notice her shape.

Is she bright? Fading? Barely visible?

Then ask yourself gently: What am I trying to force into fullness?

What part of me is ready to rest?

Write it down.

Or just breathe it out.

Let the moon hold it for you.

Healing doesn’t always mean shining.

Sometimes it means letting go, little by little, until you feel your own rhythm again.

Sometimes it means learning a new way to listen — just like I did with Derek.

And when you do… the signs will come.

They always do.

You don’t have to chase them.

Just look up.

Love, Val

Need a gentle place to land each month?

If this reflection stirred something in you, The Lighthouse offers monthly audio meditations, creative prompts, and tender support for the seasons you’re learning to let go, too.

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