To those that we leave behind.

I am in my massage class. Outside, the rain is pouring, loud, relentless, and we stop, just for a moment, to listen. Melbourne has been sweltering for days now, the kind of heat that clings to your skin, the kind that makes you grab for a cone of ice cream, so the rain feels, for once, like a gift.

There are five of us today, just five, and Gulchin is teaching us about releasing tight spots.

We go into pairs, like always. One on the table, the other massaging.

Someone mentions how she doesn’t have the stamina to see multiple clients in a day, how her body feels weak, unprepared. Gulchin nods, softly, as though she understands in a way only time could teach her.

She tells us, she used to have that stamina, but not anymore. Not since her husband passed away, a year and a half ago.

The air changes. She says it gently, almost like an afterthought, but her voice gives her away. Her body feels different now, broken in places that can’t be seen. She still loves massage, but the loss has made her dial everything back.

The room falls quiet. Outside, the rain continues to fall, steady, steady. 

She notices the shift, apologizes. But then, stories start to spill, unprompted. One by one, everyone shares. The weight of loss, of grief, sits in the space between us, fragile, but real.

Later, we’re practicing techniques, the elbow method, targeting knots deep in the back.

The girl practicing has her fist clenched tight, her body stiff, and Gulchin moves closer.

Let go,

she says, quietly, but it echoes loudly through the room. 

The girl loosens her fist, unclenches, softens her body.

The tension is gone. The technique works.

But those words—let go—linger, hangs in the air. 

It feels like Gulchin isn’t just saying it to her.

She’s saying it to herself, to the space all around us, to the grief that clings to her.

She’s giving herself permission, the kind we never say out loud, to loosen her hold, to move forward, to just—let go.

I think about those two words, and they rest heavy on my chest.

Let go.

I think about the things I hold onto, the way my fingers curl so tightly around memories, the way I let pain sit, stubborn, in my body, like it belongs there.

Let go,

I tell myself, again and again, like a mantra, until it starts to feel real.

I don’t have to hold on to the past so tightly.

I can leave the hurt where it belongs.

I can keep the good, let the rest fall away, and build something new.

The rain is still falling, steady, steady, as I sit there, thinking of all the things I’m ready to let go of.

And maybe, just maybe, I will.