The beauty in letting go
When my husband and I separated this spring (this was short-term), I didn’t know what would happen next. We’d been partners for 20 years, parents, lovers, friends—and for the last six + years, we’d also been ethically non-monogamous. When things got hard, really hard, it wasn’t the lifestyle, it was the stuff underneath. The unspoken power dynamics. The emotional enmeshment. The places where we had fused so tightly together that neither of us could breathe.
In the beginning I thought ENM was all about adding new relationships—new play, new people, new experiences - but lately, I’ve been thinking more about subtraction. About what needs to be let go of in order to actually build something new.
And that’s where detachment comes in.
I don’t mean emotional withdrawal. I mean conscious detachment—the process of loosening the old stories, habits, and identities we cling to in order that we can create a new version of ourselves. And maybe, a new version of the relationship.
In non-monogamy, this shows up all the time. We think we’re just opening up the sex part, or the dating part, but the real work? It's in confronting everything we’ve attached to our roles: The idea that my partner “should” always be my default. That sex is a symbol of emotional priority. That jealousy is a sign of failure. That I’ll only feel safe if I’m in control.
Detaching from those beliefs isn’t easy. It can feel like peeling off armor you didn’t realize you’d been wearing—protective, yes, but also heavy and outdated. There’s a vulnerability to it. An exposure. Sometimes it can feel like the trapeze artist, letting go of one bar before catching the next, ultimately, trusting yourself. (sidenote: I tried this once - trapeze - at a resort and it was absolutely terrifying.)
But here’s the thing: if we don’t let go of the old framework, we’re sometimes just layering new experiences on top of old wounds.
During one of those weeks apart, I was staying in a hotel, and our 19-year-old son asked me a question that stopped me: “Mom, since you’re a relationship coach, how can you coach other people or call yourself an expert if you can’t manage your own relationship?”
It was innocent—but it had bite. And it mirrored the question I’d been asking myself in the moments of self-doubt. What was I doing, calling myself an expert when I felt so unsure of what came next?
What I told him was this: No relationship is perfect. And if a coach or therapist ever tells you theirs is, you should probably run in the other direction. Relationships are messy—because people are messy. Add intimacy, vulnerability, attachment, and the fear of losing it all… and of course it gets complicated. Being an expert doesn’t mean having a tidy relationship. It means being willing to stay awake inside of it. To keep choosing the hard conversations. To keep growing.
For me, this time of separation has reminded me that ENM isn’t just about more—more partners, more pleasure, more freedom. It’s about becoming more true. That often means shedding the parts of myself that were performative or protective, rediscovering the ones I’d silenced or lost, and making space for new truths as they emerge. Not to become someone else—but to come home to the version of myself that feels the truest of all.
Reattachment—healthy reattachment—can only happen when both people are standing on their own feet. Not clinging. Not rescuing. Just choosing, every day, to connect from a place of freedom and truth.
And sometimes, that means stepping back. Discovering what it feels like when the old patterns are not present. Trusting that letting go is not the end—but the beginning.
If you’re in a season of detaching—or you’re trying to figure out how to rebuild something new from where you are—I see you. And I’m here for that conversation. (As always, you can schedule a 30-minute consult with me here.)
Update: we are living together again and actively working on our marriage, version 3.0. The time apart was invaluable.