Letting Go and Letting Go and Letting Go After Loss
Personal Perspective: When practicality wins over sentiment.
Updated May 1, 2026 | Reviewed by Michelle Quirk
Tom liked to build stuff, especially tables, which, he admitted, he had a thing for. Nothing fancy, just plain, often-unpretty worktables. One sat outside our converted garage for years. This table came in very handy, but it was built of untreated wood, and after decades in the elements, the wood started rotting.
The table started listing a couple of years ago as the wood softened and splintered. I wasn’t ready to let go of it— Tom built it —so a friend and I put in some screws and nails to shore it up. Recently, though, it collapsed beyond repair, and I had to part with what was left of it. It went up to the curb to be picked up with the bulky trash.
Of course, this wasn’t just getting rid of a rotten old wooden table; it was letting go of another little piece of Tom.
The big wood box he built on the patio is in its last gasps, too. It also got a reprieve with some new screws, but now it’s starting to collapse. I’ve been thinking about having my fireplace converted back to gas, anyway, so at some point in the not-too-distant future, this box will be unnecessary. ("My fireplace" still sounds weird. It was ours for so long.)
The plexiglass Tom hung to keep the squirrels out of the bird feeders finally fell. One piece is still leaning against the fence where I see it every day. I don't plan to rehang it, but still it sits. I’ll get rid of it eventually.
The socks he gave me—gift socks were a “thing” for us—are wearing thin, getting holes. I’ll wear them as long as I can. I had to stop wearing the slippers he gave me, but they still molder in my closet. They’ll have to go. Someday.
This is the passage of time. Six years since Tom died. The past is gathering dust.
I have let go of a lot of his music collection. (It’s been an interesting exercise, deciding what I actually like myself as opposed to what was more his music.) I sold his truck. Parting with a lot of his clothes took me a couple of years, and I still kept a few to wear and just have. The hardest thing—which I am gearing up to do—will be to sell his music equipment. It’s taking up a lot of space in the garage, and I’m finally convinced that he’s not going to need it again, which makes me very sad. It is not helpful nostalgia .
I am letting go of the remnants of Tom on Earth, one CD, one rotten table at a time. It’s an emotional process.
I take pictures of things before they go. I photographed his lawnmower as it was loaded into a van, and his truck as it rode away on a flatbed. They say looking at a photo of a sentimental item activates the same part of the brain as looking at the item itself. But can it be as satisfying? There is something kind of awe-inspiring about holding the actual thing.
So yeah, the feelings churned up by the things left behind are complicated. Getting rid of them is weighty. They are actual proof that Tom was here; they hold his fingerprints, his DNA . They are potent.
But I don’t need them all.
Things can’t stay static
It takes a while to fully grasp that holding on to things won’t bring the person back. But there comes a time when you have more reason to let go than to hold on. You need the space. It doesn’t work anymore. You’re just tired of looking at old and worn-out things, metaphors for the passage of time. After a while, practicality wins out over sentimentality. And the truth is, every time I let something go, it feels like growth. Making room in my life for whatever I want to happen next.
Besides, I have plenty of better sentimental items than a rotten old table. I wear Tom’s pullovers all the time. They’re like a hug. And there are things I do that are more him than me, like keeping beer mugs in the freezer. I don’t drink beer, but I like offering friends beer in a frosty mug. That’s a souvenir of Tom, too.
I’ve made changes to the house since he’s been gone. Painted a bathroom. Had a screened porch built. Planted a garden. I wonder sometimes if I would have done these things if he were still alive. Little by little, I am taking full ownership of the home we shared. He’s in the DNA of this place: His artwork is everywhere, and he framed virtually everything on the walls, none of which I plan to part with. But my life can’t be a museum. And also, stuff ages, breaks, stops being useful.
Letting go is a process. Things are important until they’re not, and with each thing I let go, I take another step into a reinvented life. I will always take Tom with me, but I probably don’t need all the stuff he left behind.
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Sophia Dembling is a Dallas-based writer and the author of Introverts in Love: The Quiet Way to Happily Ever After.
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This article is part of the Bringwise Psychology Journal — daily insights on human behavior, mental health, and personal growth.