Exploring the ways we leave, the ways we stay too long, and the quiet courage of walking away.
There’s a kind of leaving no one talks about.
The kind that isn’t loud.
The kind that doesn’t burn bridges or pack boxes.
The kind that happens slowly, over time, in the silence between conversations.
We often see leaving as a failure, or abandonment, or some selfish unraveling. But sometimes, leaving is the most honest thing you can do—for yourself or for someone else. Sometimes staying becomes a slow erosion, a gentle betrayal of your own needs. And walking away, quietly, can be the bravest act of care you’ll ever perform.
A Home for All My Leaving was born from the aftermath of so many partings—some mine, some not. It’s a collection shaped by exits that didn’t come with fanfare, just a soft door click. I didn’t write it to justify anything. I wrote it to understand the gravity of goodbyes we never really name.
“Not all love is meant to last. But some is meant to teach you when to leave with love still intact.”
Leaving doesn’t mean you don’t care.
Sometimes it means you cared enough not to stay and become resentful.
Sometimes it means the version of you that was once happy there no longer exists.
If you’re holding a goodbye in your chest, this is your reminder:
You’re allowed to walk away gently.
You’re allowed to leave and still love what you’re leaving.
You don’t owe anyone your erosion.
