The Freedom In Letting Go

What if the life you want isn’t something you have to hustle harder for — but something waiting for you under the weight of what you’ve already outgrown?

Letting go isn’t always easy. But it is powerful. It’s an act of trust, an act of courage, and — most of all — an invitation to freedom.

At Home Love Method, we believe your home is a reflection of your inner world. When your space is full of things that no longer serve you, it’s not just clutter on a shelf — it’s noise in your mind, tension in your body, weight on your spirit.

And some of that weight we choose to release. Some of it… releases us.

Recently, I had to say goodbye to my dog Minnie— my companion, my comfort, my steady heartbeat in a world that often felt overwhelming.

She was a rescue I found online. She was elegant, poised, gentle. The kind of presence that brought calm into a room without ever asking for attention. Her soft, white fur felt like peace under my hand. She had different colored eyes — one clear and light, the other deep and soulful — as if she could see multiple worlds at once. She was always loving, always kind. I often thought, I want to be more like her.

She had this habit of crossing her front legs when she curled into her bed — like a little lady. And when she wanted affection, she’d quietly press her face into my lap and wait. Not demandingly. Just… trustingly. A silent invitation to pause.

And I didn’t always pause. That’s one of the things I carry now — the moments I was too busy, too distracted, too tired to stop and give her what she so gently asked for. I wish I had given more time. I wish I had leaned into her softness instead of rushing past it.

Letting her go was not a choice I wanted to make. But life asked me to open my hands.

The wound is still fresh and since the days after, her bed is — empty. Her bowl sits in the corner, untouched. I keep hearing her, seeing her — the imagined sound of paws on the floor, the quiet breath beside me, her playful spirit running and jumping in the backyard.

The grief comes in waves, soft and sharp.

But strangely, something else has begun to open up too. A kind of clarity. A deep reorientation toward what actually matters.

When you lose someone you love — whether a pet, a person, or even a season of life — it reshapes everything. Suddenly the clutter becomes background noise. The mess, the excess, the things you’ve been holding onto “just in case”… they start to feel heavy in a way you no longer want to carry.

So I’ve started letting go more deeply and with presence than before.

Not in a frenzy. But as a sacred act. A way of honoring her by choosing softness. By choosing presence.

By saying: I want to live the way she lived. Open. Graceful. Grounded in love.

There are things we choose to let go of — the items, the expectations, the old stories.

And then there are the things that life takes from our hands — no matter how tightly we hold them.

In both, there is grief.

And in both, there is freedom.

Not the light, breezy kind — but a quiet freedom. The kind that lives inside love.

The kind that says: Even if she’s no longer beside me, she’s still with me.

In how I slow down.

In how I soften.

In how I create space for what truly matters.

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I still have another dog. Bruno.

He’s smaller than she was. A little scruffier, rougher around the edges. Not as subtle or as dainty. He doesn’t float through the room like she did — he clunks in, takes up space, asks for what he wants, then asks again louder. He’s a little more selfish. A little more obtuse. But he’s still mine. And now, in the absence of her… we’re getting to know each other in a whole new way.

It’s as if we’ve been roommates for years — sharing the same space, but with her as the bridge between us. And now, with her gone, we’re just two beings left in the quiet together. A little awkward. A little unsure. Trying to figure out who we are without her.

And here’s what’s happened: all the love I didn’t have time to give her — all the moments I rushed past, all the extra strokes and snuggles and belly rubs I missed — it’s pouring into him now. Every bit of softness I wish I had given her is landing on him instead. Not as a replacement. But as a continuation.

He is receiving love for the both of them.

And I think, in some way, she would want that, and that was what she was here to teach me. The love I have for her is still in me even though she is gone. Now I must take the wisdom of her loving, gentle example and carry it over into everything I do. Be like my dog.

Maybe this is what letting go gives us, too: the chance to see what’s still here. To give more fully. To soften where we once rushed. To learn how to love again — even when our hearts are still broken.

Maybe letting go is just another way of making room for love to move and grow.

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Because the truth is: our things can get in the way of our moments.

Our to-do lists, our chores, the endless cycle of “someday when it slows down” — they can quietly steal time from the people and creatures we love most. And once those moments are gone… we don’t get them back.

My mom told me when my boys were little:

“Kate, there will come a day when you’ll wish your house was a mess. The laundry, dishes, chores, will always be there. But their little feet running through the house? That won’t.”

Now I say to myself, “Kate, please, take time every day.

Put down the to-do list.

Walk your dog.

Call your mom and your kid.

Feed your body.

Take in the sunset.”

And to you I say, “Let go of what you can.

And hold close what matters.

Because this — these ordinary, fleeting moments — this is what home is for.”

Happy Tidying