“The longer you stay where you don’t belong, the harder it is to find where you do.” — James Clear
We often hear people say “I’m not sure this is for me anymore,” but they rarely say it out loud. It’s a quiet knowing. It creeps in during a group trip that costs too much, a conversation where you don’t feel heard, or a day where joy feels more like performance. But letting go is hard—especially when the thing you’re questioning once brought you meaning, pride, or community.
This article is a meditation on the courage to let go. Not because we must — but because something within us whispers that it may be time. Through real-world examples, we reflect on how to notice when something once beautiful now weighs us down, and how to transition with both dignity and grace.
Here are five deeply familiar experiences, told through the lens of real, Kenyan life. Each is a reflection on the moment you realize: something has shifted. The lifestyle may still look good—but it no longer fits.
1. Golf: The Gentle Erosion of Joy
Beginning:
You were introduced to golf through your employer. It was paid for, prestigious, and came with weekend tournaments, travel, and trophies. You found community in it. People admired your discipline. You were one of the few women in your club, and you took pride in that.
Middle:
Now retired, the golf remains—but the support system does not. You foot your own bills, join national circuits where hotel and travel costs keep rising. Your partners are mostly younger professionals with steady incomes. You feel tired after playing. You want to suggest cheaper accommodation—but fear you’ll look “broke.” You hear yourself joking, “Me with my small car…” and laugh with them, though it doesn’t feel funny.
Turning Point:
You miss a friend’s birthday trip to save for the next tournament. You’re secretly relieved when a game is cancelled, even as you pretend to be disappointed. Then one day, while packing your golf bag, you hear it: “Do I even want to go?”
Reflection:
What started as joy has become strain. You can’t help but wonder if your pride is masking fatigue. Would it be so wrong to skip a season? Or play casually—on your own terms?
2. The Chama: From Sisterhood to Silent Burden
Beginning:
You joined the chama with women you admired. It was a space of mentorship, collective savings, and long tea chats. You started small—monthly contributions, short trips, a few investments. You looked forward to every meeting.
Middle:
Over time, the group dynamics shift. Some members advance financially, start businesses, fly abroad. The expectations rise. You feel pressure to keep up: to host elegantly, dress the part, contribute more. You begin to dread the meetings—not because of the people, but the silent comparisons.
Turning Point:
You borrow to meet your monthly obligation. You lie about why you missed a trip. You turn off your phone on the group meeting day. It’s not malice—it’s survival. One evening, your child asks, “Mum, do you even like going to those meetings anymore?” You pause. You hadn’t asked yourself that in a long time.
Reflection:
Leaving would feel like a betrayal. But staying now feels like pretending. The chama served you once. Maybe it’s time to build something new—with different rules.
3. Travel Groups: Chasing Freedom, Losing Self
Beginning:
Your first hiking trip was life-changing. You discovered new parts of Kenya, made friends, posted breathtaking photos. You felt part of something exciting. The group was active, welcoming, always planning the next escape.
Middle:
Then came the pressure: pay now or miss out, early bird offers, trips planned six months in advance. You sign up to feel included, then silently panic when a family emergency comes up. You try to trade your slot, but the value is now too low. You attend a trip you can't afford, afraid to ask for a refund. And you’re too embarrassed to say you're tired of being on the road every other weekend.
Turning Point:
At a viewpoint in Naivasha, you realize you're not looking at the view. You’re thinking about next month’s rent. You scroll through the group chat and feel nothing. The silence inside you is louder than the birdsong around you.
Reflection:
The promise of freedom began to feel like a trap. Could you start your own small travel circle—on your terms, your pace, your budget?
4. Church Circles: When Belonging Becomes a Balancing Act
Beginning:
You joined the women’s fellowship after retirement. It gave structure to your week, brought spiritual depth, and opened new friendships. The meetings were lively, prayerful, and often ended in shared meals.
Middle:
But slowly, there’s a shift. Subtle competition creeps in—whose child bought a new car, who travelled abroad, who’s building a house. You try to keep up, feel invisible when you can’t. You suggest a cheaper retreat option—and get gently ignored. You notice who’s always speaking and who’s always listening.
Turning Point:
After yet another event where you felt like a guest, not a sister, you decide to skip one meeting. Then another. You go to the coast with a few church women who aren’t in the group. It’s easy, light, joyful. You laugh in a way you haven’t in months. And suddenly, you wonder: Was the fellowship always this heavy?
Reflection:
Faith is still important. But maybe fellowship needs to look different now—smaller, softer, more human.
5. Gym Culture: Wellness or Worthiness?
Beginning:
You joined the gym after a health scare. You were determined. The trainers were helpful, the results visible. People noticed. You felt empowered.
Middle:
Now, you're older. Your knees hurt. You dread the treadmill. The gym fees are higher. The new crowd is younger, more image-conscious. You feel self-conscious, slower. You try to push through. But there’s a lingering thought: Am I working out for me—or for who I used to be?
Turning Point:
Your doctor tells you to rest more. You start doing yoga at home. A morning walk with a neighbor becomes your favorite part of the day. You still have your gym card—but you haven’t used it in three months.
Reflection:
Health isn’t about proving you’re still “on it.” It’s about caring for the body you have, in the season you’re in.
A Quiet Truth
Letting go isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s a silent decision not to renew. To step back. To not show up. And to be okay with that.
The world tells us: keep pushing, stay visible, don’t fall behind. But the wiser voice—the one we often ignore—asks a better question:
“Have you outgrown this… and is it time to let it go?”
The Gentle Art of Letting Go
We rarely talk about retiring joys. About knowing when to say: this no longer nourishes me. Not out of bitterness or boredom, but out of reverence for our changing selves.
Letting go is not a failure of discipline, love, or loyalty. It is the recognition that growth means becoming someone new — and that new version of you may need different soil to thrive in.
"When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about." — Rumi
So if you're standing at a threshold — between holding on and moving on — ask yourself:
Am I still here for joy or obligation?
Has the season passed, but I remain out of fear?
What might bloom if I released this?
Letting go might just be the grace you didn’t know you needed.
Closing Quote
“It is not the things we let go that we regret, but the time we took pretending they still fit.”
— Jeanette LeBlanc
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