The Art of Leaving Well:
An Etymological Exploration of Letting Go
It is a strange thing to begin something new with a title such as this. However, I must emphasize that this is not a farewell piece but a hello. In fact, I have learned that the act of leaving is far less like a good-bye than we think, even the etymological evolution of the word itself testifies to that. There is a delectable irony, a magical realism (not in the literary sense but the regular), a bittersweet flavour that results from beginning by leaving something behind. . .
By no means am I an expert at the craft of leaving, much less leaving well. I have made my share of messes (and perhaps more) leaving people, jobs, passions, hobbies, friends. And while I could go on here about all the backstory that led me to this moment, I will instead stick to just those few stories about leaving, how I learned that leaving is not what we think it is — an etymological lesson learned and shared here about the art of leaving and leaving well.
Leaving is Not What You Think
“That doesn’t count. You just said it because you’re angry”. This was the response to the first time I ever spoke the words to end a relationship. This phrase is the first of the only two statements that I actually remember from my high school quasi-relationship and breakup (if a very dramatic, intense, and probably ill-advised mutual high-school attraction can even be considered a “relationship”). It was more an “opponent-ship” than anything — almost eight months, if I remember correctly, of non-stop debate and conflict while simultaneously holding hands under school desks. It was a process of metaphorically stripping each other down to the gushy, unformed, idealized beliefs of our adolescence only to reject each other in the end (rejection over text I might add, as is the fitting and perhaps required end of a high school crush).
Which leads me to the second of the two statements I remember and this one came directly after the first and herein lies the problem: “I suppose you’re right, let’s not breakup then”. Even now, I am cringing at my acceptance, my submission to the implication of the first statement that since you are responding from hurt, you have no right to leave. And on one level deeper than that, the subtle stigma that leaving is quitting, that by leaving you’ve lost — lost whatever you committed to working on (relationship, job, or project) and lost to the other person because you admitted to giving up first.
Reading that out loud, it seems at a first glance that these suggestions, these undercurrents of belief may be true. We shouldn’t leave because our emotions are overwhelming (and may indeed pass given time). We shouldn’t leave because you are just giving up all that you have experienced and worked for. But as an English Literature major and philosophy nerd, looking back on it now, it takes a little more argumentation to convince me, certainly more argumentation than what my high-school self accepted.
Upon etymological research, I must say, leaving as outlined above in that teenage exchange could not be more wrong. The word itself means something else entirely and came from a much more loving, open, optimistic tradition.
Def’n 1: Leaving — “Remaining”
Leave (v.) Old English læfan “to allow to remain in the same state or condition; to let remain, allow to survive…”
— Online Etymology Dictionary
I had to reread that definition over and over as my mind sought to understand how this word has evolved to become the opposite of what it once was. In my experience, “leaving” has today been defined as more alike to quitting, as starting over, as an effort to distance oneself from the past if not delete it entirely. But the word’s Old English roots as the Online Etymology Dictionary defines it are so much more forgiving — “to let remain, allow to survive”. The Old English word is linked primarily to inheritance and those left behind after death, but when carried over to our modern situation when we choose to leave, I think it provides a key insight. By this ancestral definition, we leave not because we want to be rid of something but instead because we want that which we leave to keep going even without us there, to remain.
Ultimately, my highschool relationship ended when the other person left me behind instead — he said the last words and I once again accepted with eyeliner running down my cheeks, heartsick and crying with my best friend for hours until I got a migraine. But I think now that it doesn’t matter who said it first (or last). While at the time, I found myself youthfully destroyed and panicked by my lack of self, I know now I was not left behind — not in the typical sense at least. I was not just a dot, stagnant and leftover, on the timeline of somebody else’s life. I was one who remained, who grew, who became something all my own. By being left by him and leaving him too by accepting his choice to leave, we allowed each other to survive. It was a morally good thing. When leaving, you lose something — in this case the relationship we left behind, but you are yourself not lost and neither is the other person. You remain. You exist. You hurt, but you remain.
Leaving is not quitting; it is not a tabula rasa cancellation; it is the act of allowing something to remain without destroying it further. I think it is a kind of respect — respect for yourself and for what you leave behind. Leaving well is very simply leaving because you are motivated by respect and want to allow another person to remain without you.
As I read this etymological definition, I am, years later, more accepting of the place that my highschool experience holds in my heart. Dramatic? Yes. Cringey? Definitely. But still so worthy of honour, not something to ditch and forget about. It will never be an experience or past self that I hope to return to, but I can respect her for who she was. I can carry that self with me, forgive her for the mistakes she made, laugh at the total shameless idealism she had, and hold her up for the simple fact that she survived. I carry her but she is not me; I’ve left her but she is not gone. She remains with her slightly off kilter eyeliner and questionable fashion sense; she lives with her effervescent naivete even and especially as I leave her behind.
Def’n 2: Leaving — “Bereavement”
But, though leaving can be morally a good thing when done well, this is not to say that we can and should leave all the time. No, part of living and letting live is resilience. Sometimes, leaving is not the answer because leaving does have a cost. As much as the word leave comes from the Old English “læfan” — to allow to remain, it is also descended from the Germanic word “bleiben” according to Online Etymology Dictionary or “belive” according to the Oxford English Dictionary. In both cases the Old English and the Germanic, the root words are associated with the posthumous societal process and there is a grief tied to both. Although, it is etymologically unrelated, the word “belive” also sounds coincidentally like the modern word “bereave” meaning to grieve. And here again, I think we find another facet of “leaving”: that even as we do endure and remain after the leaving is done, there is a bereavement in enduring, a deprivation, a without-ness.
Bereave (v.) from Old English bereafian “to deprive of…mostly in reference to life, hope, loved ones, and other immaterial possessions.”
- Online Etymology Dictionary
While I do not know yet what complete bereavement due to the loss of a loved one is like, when we leave something, there is also a lesser kind of grief. We exist without that which we have left behind — bereft of something we once had.
Several months ago, my closest friend and I parted ways. It was not an explosion, nor was it angry. It was, I would say, leaving well — leaving out of respect and love for each other. It was an acknowledgment that we cannot be for each other now what we were for each other before. There was a searing pain acknowledging that right now our presence in each other’s lives causes more unmet needs and exhaustion for both of us than the love and support that our friendship used to have. What we had in the past does not suddenly disappear, we remain and she will always be a dear and deep part of my life. Yet, months later, I still reach for my phone about to send a message and then feel that moment of grief, of being bereft of the dynamic we once had.
But this grief is not inherently negative (we swing around words like “negative” too often without really defining what they mean). On the contrary, if we did end up leaving each other, knowing that this grief was a reality drove me to exhaust every idea I had to try to heal the distance that grew between us. The bereavement that comes with leaving made leaving a last resort. We made plans and tried different strategies of trying to meet each other and to love each other differently. Ultimately, though these strategies failed, and when they did, I was assured that without a doubt right now leaving is the best option to love and respect ourselves the way we deserve. The reality of this grief is what pushed me to leave well, to try until we couldn’t anymore. And, it gives me the confidence to know that I did leave out of love and respect for her, and she also did the same for me.
Def’n 3: Leaving — “Living”
Once again though, that’s not all there is to it. Yes, leaving well is based on respect, based on the understanding that you remain and what you leave remains too even after the leaving is done. Yes, leaving well and remaining does still contain an element of grief, but remaining, enduring on, is not all about grief either. This is finally the exciting part. It’s also about this new space in your life that can be filled with new possibilities, possibilities that you wouldn’t have if that space hadn’t been cleared in the first place. The word “leave”, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, shares “the same Germanic base as ‘live’”.
I used to sing once a month, on a stage, microphones, spotlights, all of it. I used to sing my soul into sound waves and cherish the feeling of purpose that came with it. Even my name “Shar” is an abbreviation for a name of latin origin meaning “singer”. Though after my first three adventurous years, I realized that I gave too much of myself away to the task. I was deeply invested and equally unsupported. That particular stage became a place where I continually raised the bar higher to the point where I was achieving “success” but would exhaust myself getting there. I was concerned that my leaving would result in a team left in the lurch, leave a passion of mine unfinished, leave the real growth I had actually achieved dishonoured, leave a cycle of running away as a legacy my future self would inherit. Leaving this behind was quitting, and that was not an option. If only I could stretch farther, I would grow into this.
But somewhere I knew I was breaking down, I was already losing myself and no passion no matter how fruitful is worth that. There are great loves that while beautiful and fulfilling for a time, you shouldn’t grow into. So I asked for a break. There I learned that leaving is a way of setting boundaries and guarding your heart, a next step to a healthier life.
My break stretched into months and then years. I poured my heart instead into relationships, different causes, work, new passions — a shift which resulted in merit scholarships, fulfilment, sustainable relationships, and most of all the ability to dream beyond the next song. I love singing but leaving it was living, really living. Imagine a world where our linguistic association for the word “leaving” evolved down a different route — one that was less about loss and more about allowing something to remain, more about the life that continues and flourishes after the leaving is done. Imagine how much easier on ourselves we might be. Imagine how much stronger we’d be in the things we should stay the course for if we allowed ourselves to leave behind the things that need leaving.
All too often, we stay in places and with people out of fear of quitting, fear of hurting the other person, fear of losing yourself in the process of leaving, and generally thinking that staying is the safer, more loving thing to do. And certainly that may be the case, but there may also come a time when leaving is the more loving thing to do. And in those times, know that leaving is 1) allowing what you leave to remain, understand that you will 2) feel the bereavement and grief of allowing what you’ve left to remain without you, but most importantly, please hope, dream, strive for more, because 3) there is a special kind of living in leaving too and its called a fresh start. Despite the hurt and mess, I hope you stand as I do, affirmed of the choices you’ve made in the past and excited for what you’ve chosen in the future, ready to learn and begin anew. So we have come full circle to end with beginnings and begin with endings, because leaving well is doing both and I hope you do it bravely.
Although there are three stories here, three definitions of “leaving”, if I could convey just one paramount piece of wisdom that almost covers it all, a piece of wisdom we simply aren’t told enough, it would be this: for you, the messy, chaotic, heart-sick, passionate reader, for you the immensely human, dearly beloved, and deeply loving dreamer, yes there is always more out there in world. Yes, it’s alright for you to leave because leaving is a kind of living too, a kind of live and let live; in fact, leaving well allows you to take your past with you into the future. Yes, it’s alright to let go and move on. Yes, it is wonderfully achievable for you to leave without dishonoring your past, present, and future selves and all the other people you met, meet, and will meet in those times.
Yes, it is possible to leave well — the word itself testifies to that.
With joy,
Shar TianAi