What Cutting Off My Hair Taught Me About Letting Go
Hello, my Darlings!
It’s nine-thirty, and I am tucked beneath my Laura Ashley duvet with a warm cup of chamomile tea beside me. My candle warmer is melting one of my favorite candles from the Bridgerton Collection, and for the first time in a while, my room feels calm—even though my mind does not.
My candle warmer has become one of those little comforts I did not know I needed, a small luxury that makes my bedroom feel softer at the end of the day.
Tonight feels exactly the way I believe an evening should feel: quiet, comforting, and unhurried.
What Does It Mean to Let Go?
I do not know if I have ever truly understood how to let go of things.
Is it supposed to happen all at once? What does it feel like when something has finally released its hold on you?
I had so many questions, and the truth is that letting go looks different for everyone. I thought journaling, exercising, praying, or simply keeping myself busy would help me move forward.
But after cutting my hair, I realized that keeping busy and letting go are not necessarily the same thing.
For me, letting go means accepting what happened, releasing the regret, and making peace with the choice I need to make next.
Deciding to cut my hair meant releasing poor self-esteem, the belief that my hair determined my beauty, and a season of my life I was no longer living in.
Holding on to its length had kept me in an unhappy state for much longer than I wanted to admit.
The Breaking Point
Before cutting my hair, I had moved to another part of the state during a time when several areas of my life were beginning to unravel.
I was trying to manage a long-distance relationship that was already struggling. My stress was much higher than usual, but I was not managing it properly.
My full-time retail job did not make matters any easier. The workload and unrealistic expectations began to weigh on my body, my mood, and my spirit.
In the midst of all of this, my relationship ended.
As the weeks became months and nearly a year passed, I began noticing more hair in my comb. My hair was thinning, and it no longer had the density it once had.
I cannot pinpoint exactly when my hair began to suffer. I only know that I did not fully recognize what was happening until the damage had already been done.
By then, I no longer felt like myself.
I did not recognize the woman looking back at me in the mirror.
The Identity I Had Built Around My Hair
I had allowed my hair to become too closely connected to my identity and self-worth.
For years, long hair had been the ultimate goal for me. Somewhere along the way, I began to believe that reaching a certain length would prove something—that it would make me feel more beautiful, more accomplished, or more like the woman I wanted to become.
In my late thirties, I made myself a promise: if my hair had not reached my waist by the time I turned forty, I would cut it.
I was almost there.
But life happened to me.
Because I had come so close to reaching my goal, cutting my hair felt like admitting that I had failed. I continued holding on to the length, even when the ends had become sparse, thin, and unhealthy.
What I had once considered a symbol of beauty had slowly become a reminder of stress, disappointment, and neglect.
The Day I Cut It
On June 22, 2026, I finally decided to cut my hair.
It was fast and final.
I had not planned to do it that day. I was standing in front of the mirror with deep conditioner in my hair when I noticed that most of its density was concentrated near my roots while the ends looked sparse and thin.
I looked at myself and thought, Why am I holding on to hair that is no longer healthy?
The state of my hair had become a visible reminder of a life that was no longer my present.
So I reached for the little gold scissors I had purchased for the occasion. You could say they were my ceremonial scissors—small, pretty, and waiting for the moment when I was finally ready to release the length I had been so desperate to preserve.
And then I cut it.
There it was. Done.
When I looked down at the small pile of hair in my hands, I almost felt silly for having been so afraid to let it go. I had attached so much meaning to something that now rested quietly in my palms.
Afterward, I felt amazing.
What Remained in My Hands
As I looked at the small coils resting in my palms, I realized that they were connected to an old season of my life.
Every curl seemed to carry memories from the last ten years—memories of versions of myself I no longer recognized, seasons I had outgrown, and dreams I had quietly grieved.
The woman I had been for the last decade had already begun to fall away. The hair in my hands represented what remained of that season, and I finally needed to release it.
My hair had become one of those quiet places where memories had been living.
Sometimes we believe we have moved on because we are no longer talking about something. We believe we are healed because we are no longer crying about it every day.
Then something happens, and we realize that certain memories have been living quietly inside of us, waiting for the right moment to be seen again.
For me, my hair became one of those places.
It held stress.
It was disappointing.
It held the version of me who continued pushing through when what she truly needed was rest.
It held the woman I had been in my thirties—the woman who wanted certain things so deeply and eventually had to make peace with the fact that some chapters do not end the way we imagined they would.
The Deeper Lesson
My story is about more than cutting my hair.
It is about releasing damaged things from my life—not only what is visibly damaged, but also the beliefs, expectations, and versions of myself that I have outgrown.
I am learning to listen to my heart and pay attention to what my body is trying to tell me.
Hair can and will grow back. I know that now.
But I also know that I cannot continue neglecting my health and expect there to be no consequences. My hair revealed the effects of stress long before I was willing to fully acknowledge them.
Cutting it did not erase everything I had experienced. It did not instantly heal every disappointment or resolve every difficult emotion.
But it gave me a moment of honesty.
It reminded me that I am allowed to release what is damaged. I am allowed to begin again. I am allowed to look different and still be whole.
I Am Still Me
Maybe for you, it is not hair.
Maybe it is a relationship, a routine, a version of yourself, a dream, or even a standard of beauty you have carried for far too long.
Whatever it is, I hope you know that letting go does not always mean you failed.
Sometimes it means you finally listened.
It is difficult to release the things in our lives that no longer serve a meaningful purpose. For me, it was my hair. I had already made the decision in my heart; I simply needed the courage to follow through.
Cutting my hair did not fix everything in my life, but it reminded me that I am allowed to choose myself again.
I am allowed to release what is damaged, what is heavy, and what no longer reflects the woman I am becoming.
My hair will grow back, but this time, I want to grow with it—healthier, softer, wiser, and more honest about what I need.
I am still me.
With long hair, with short hair, with a fresh start, and with a tender heart—I am still me.
And maybe that is what letting go truly is.
Not pretending the past never mattered, but deciding that it no longer gets to define how I see myself.
Not losing yourself, but making room to meet yourself again.
Xo
Georgiana
