He said, “Have a Nice Day.”

Turns out letting go doesn’t have to be ceremonial.

I drove to Goodwill yesterday with my wedding dress in the trunk.

The one from my first wedding that I got married in at 22, preserved in a fancy box because I thought I'd keep it forever—maybe pass it down to a daughter who turned out to be my son.

I handed it to the Goodwill worker like it was a bag of old towels. He said, "Have a nice day." I said, "You too." That was it.

It was so unceremonious. I drove away knowing I had let go of more than just five pounds of taffeta, and with it whatever vestiges of a dream, guilt, and attachment I'd had to the dashed hopes those threads bear. 

I've schlepped that dress to eight different addresses, a name change, through my kids being born, one coming out as trans, and I knew this garage would be its last. Through rebuilding my entire life this preserved and protected box occupied space I didn't even realize it was taking.

Our stuff takes up more than just physical space. This gown still bore the story of what I thought my life would be.

Last week I wrote about getting a butterfly tattoo three days before Easter—about resurrection happening now, not someday. About the stone already being rolled away before we even get there.

This week I took a wedding dress to Goodwill.

Same theme. Different Tuesday. This time its release. Honoring our dignity as human beings sometimes means letting what no longer fits slip through our fingers and into a bin at the nearest thrift store.

You don't have to hold onto every version of yourself to honor where you've been.

I didn't need a ceremony to let it go--didn't have to burn it or bury it or write a letter to my younger self. I just needed a Tuesday morning and a Goodwill drop-off.

The Goodwill worker didn't know he was receiving fourteen years of a story I've been carrying. He just said, "Have a nice day."

And I did.

Wayfinding Practice for the Week:

What are you still carrying that doesn't belong to you anymore?

It doesn't have to be big stuff. Just: what's taking up space in your garage—literal or metaphorical—that you're holding onto out of obligation, guilt, or the story you thought your life would be?

Go find it. Look at it. Then decide: keep or release?

You don't need a ceremony. You just need to let it go, but if you want to send me a pic or a thought about what you're releasing, you know I'm in your corner, just leave a comment below!

This reflection is part of Wayfinder's Weekly, my free Monday newsletter for people navigating threshold seasons. Subscribe here

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