We often imagine closure as a single moment. The door shuts, the conversation ends, the final box is packed, and we tell ourselves it is over. But in real life, closure does not work that way. It comes in layers, in the small goodbyes we never expected to sting quite so much.
For me, this truth has become especially real as I prepare to move. Every drawer I open, every box I sort through, holds its own farewell. A button tucked away, a keychain from a trip I barely remember, the greenery I tended on the deck each summer. Each one feels like a tiny thread of my life being gently untied, and together they form the bittersweet fabric of an entire chapter I am saying goodbye to.
This piece is about those layered goodbyes. It is about why letting go feels so hard, how our brains and hearts cling to what is familiar, and why traditions and rituals make these transitions even more tender. And it is about how, in honouring each layer, we begin to see that closure is not just loss. It is also the slow and beautiful making of space for what is next.
