Detachment is freedom

Detachment isn’t coldness—it’s survival.

I used to believe that if I loved enough, endured enough, stayed loyal enough, the fire would die down. But some people live for smoke, for chaos, for burning everything in their reach. Family. A spouse. People who should’ve been a refuge but instead became a battlefield.

My feet are burnt from walking through their flames, trying to carry their weight and my own. Trying to redeem someone who never intended to redeem themselves. That kind of rescue mission only leaves you wounded, blistered, and limping.

Detachment is not hate. It’s choosing oxygen over suffocation. It’s remembering that peace is a right, not a reward you beg for. It’s looking at the wreckage and saying: this fire is not mine to walk through anymore.

The art of detachment is knowing when to stop picking glass out of your hands from a home that was never safe. The power of detachment is realizing love doesn’t mean losing yourself in someone else’s destruction.

Sometimes letting go isn’t abandonment—it’s freedom.