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We’re taught to believe that closure is something you get from someone else — a conversation, a confession, an apology. We’re told it looks like sitting across from the person who hurt us and hearing them say, “I see it now. I’m sorry. I wish I’d done better.” And maybe that happens in the movies. Maybe it happens in a few rare moments of grace between two people who are equally brave and willing to tell the truth.
But more often than not, closure isn’t a dialogue.
It’s a decision.
A quiet, internal reckoning.
A surrendering of the story you thought would go differently.
Sometimes closure is what you give yourself when the other person won’t — or can’t.
It’s the moment you stop rereading the last text.
Stop waiting for the phone to ring.
Stop wondering what you could’ve done to make them care more, stay longer, try harder.
Closure is the courage to stop needing more words from someone who’s already said everything they’re capable of saying — with their silence, with their distance, with their absence.
“Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.”
— Proverbs 4:23
It’s recognizing that even if you never get the conversation, you still get to walk away.
You still get to say:
“I needed more, and they didn’t have it to give.”
“I was holding on to a version of us that only existed in my effort.”
“I’m allowed to let go — without permission, without their blessing, without their understanding.”
That doesn’t make you cold. It makes you clear.
Because when you’ve lived through loss — real loss — you start to recognize what’s sacred and what’s performative. You start to discern the difference between connection and obligation. You start to realize that some people loved the idea of you, but never truly saw you.
“Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.”
— Matthew 7:6
And so, you choose closure.
You choose to bless what was.
Grieve what never came to be.
And free your heart to beat again — without waiting for an ending that may never arrive.
Closure isn’t always clean.
It’s not a single moment, but a series of brave ones:
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Choosing not to reach out one more time.
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Letting the anniversary pass without sending a text.
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Driving by the restaurant and not reliving every conversation.
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Catching the memory — and exhaling, instead of spiraling.
“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!”— Isaiah 43:18–19a
Sometimes the greatest peace comes when you stop asking why, and start honoring your own enough.
You’ve cried enough.
Explained enough.
Held on long enough.
And now? You choose to close the door — not with bitterness, but with reverence for the love you gave and the lessons it taught you.
Closure may not be a conversation —
But it is a powerful choice.
And today, you choose you.
You choose to be whole.
To heal forward.
To live un-haunted by unfinished stories.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18
Because not every chapter ends with punctuation.
Some just end — when you finally stop turning back.
