Closure is for wigs.

Any other thing is foolishness?

It’s been roughly 22 days since my last publication, and those 22 days have been rough. Some were good, to be fair. Happy, even. I had jolly happy days.

I spend most of my days teaching a bunch of lovely kids. At the end of each day, I’m very tired and happy. The two can coexist. I’m doing that and doing other things that keep my life going - writing things I can’t wait to show the world, doing podcast with the coolest people, thinking about so many things and paying bills.

I’m writing this because I want to share one of my many thoughts with you. I thought about it last week and earlier this week. I just knew it was time.

What is the thin line between closure and making a fool of yourself?

In my large happy life, I’ve met people and we’ve had connections - genuine connections. Not one person I fell out with did I ever have untrue connections with. It was always genuine, heartfelt at the beginning, until things started to shift gradually.

Misunderstanding. Miscommunication. Pride. Avoidance. Silence. Sometimes, nothing.

I know how to embrace people after a terrible fallout. I could swear I won’t talk to someone ever again, but all along I just needed one genuine conversation. I’ve forgiven someone I swore never to forgive because they hurt me terribly. I’ve reached out to someone who embarrassed our friendship publicly, just to make sure he was doing alright. I’ve gone back to being friends with someone I said I wasn’t going to speak to anymore. So many instances. And I’m sure people have done the same for me.

I do these things because I believe life is short. I’m always asking myself - is it worth it? The silence? The awkwardness? Would a conversation have fixed it? A text? A call? Maybe just to ask — what happened? How did we fall apart? Would the outcome have been different if we had approached things simply, kept to our words, chosen differently?

I stay and think these things and wonder if the other person is half as disturbed as I am.

But this is not a straight road.

Here is what I’ve come to understand: there are two myths living on either side of this thing.

The first myth is that reaching out will give you closure. Sometimes it does. Things get resolved or better still, you get to know why things will never be resolved. But sometimes, silence. Utter silence. And now you’re not just carrying the original hurt, you’re also carrying the embarrassment of having tried and failed.

The second myth is that moving on is free. That you can just decide to leave something behind and walk away clean. But moving on without knowing if things would have been different hurts too. It costs you the version of the story where things got resolved. It costs you the question you never got to ask. Sometimes it costs you a piece of how you see yourself, because unresolved things have a quiet way of making you wonder if you were the problem.

So nobody wins cleanly. You’re just choosing which myth feels more survivable.

And then there’s the silence that isn’t cowardice.

Sometimes a person goes quiet not because they don’t care, but because they remember too well what the fallout cost them the first time. Reaching out risks paying that price again — same wound, second time, and now you feel foolish for trying.

The painful part is that, sometimes the person you’re trying to reach simply doesn’t feel there’s a need. They’re not disturbed. They’re not lying awake turning it over. They don’t think they’re the problem, and maybe they’ve moved on so completely that the whole thing barely registers anymore. They wouldn’t care less.

That’s the part nobody wants to say out loud. Because it means you could be carrying something that the other person put down a long time ago. You could be standing at a door, working up the courage to knock, not knowing that nobody is on the other side wondering about you.

So neither choice is wrong. The one who reaches out and the one who stays silent are both protecting something. Just different things. Except sometimes one person is protecting themselves and the other person isn’t thinking about it at all.

Which means the thin line between closure and making a fool of yourself isn’t only about motive. It isn’t only about outcome. It’s about knowing, honestly knowing which kind of door you’re standing in front of. A door that’s stuck, or a door that’s sealed. One needs a knock. The other needs you to turn around, walk and not look back.

The hard part is that they can look identical from the outside.

So how do you know which door is stuck and which is sealed?

Willingness, I think. Not ease - willingness. A stuck door is heavy. It might take everything you have. But something in you is still leaning toward the person. Still wanting to. The hurt is there, the history is there, but underneath it all, there is still a pull.

A sealed door doesn’t feel like resistance. It doesn’t feel like anything. The wanting is simply gone. You didn’t decide it. You didn’t fight it. You just woke up one day and realised you weren’t leaning anymore.

But even that isn’t a straight road, because willingness is only ever one half of the answer. You can only ever know your own door. You cannot know theirs.

And so most of us live in assumptions. You assume they don’t care because they went silent. They assume you’re fine because you didn’t reach out. And two people who might have both been willing end up sealed by each other’s guesses. Never knowing. Never asking.

That’s the plain honest truth of it. Sometimes it isn’t a stuck door or a sealed one. Sometimes it’s just two people standing on opposite sides, both waiting, both assuming the other has already walked away.

So I’m still thinking about it. Still turning it over.

What is the thin line between closure and making a fool of yourself?

Love,

Hosanna.♥️