What Remains
The seeds that grow, even when we can’t see them yet.
Dear friend,
Last week we spoke about letting go—
not as a loss,
but as a kind of love.
And now, a softer question lingers in the air:
What remains?
After the release,
after the goodbye,
after the last deep breath—
what still lives inside us?
I used to think letting go meant emptiness.
A kind of absence.
A clean slate, sure—
but cold. Blank. Silent.
But over time, I started to notice something else.
Something more tender.
More surprising.
That after every letting go,
some things stay.
Not as baggage.
Not as regret.
But as roots.
A conversation that changed you,
even if the relationship ended.
A season of life that’s long gone,
but still teaches you how to listen.
A loss that softened you in ways you didn’t expect.
These are the quiet gifts.
The ones you don’t see right away.
The seeds planted in the dark—
growing in silence,
until one day,
you wake up a little stronger than you were before.
A little more open.
A little more still.
A little more… you.
That’s what remains.
Not the old story.
Not the pain.
Not the mask.
But the truth beneath it.
The part of you that stayed soft.
Stayed willing.
Stayed present.
Even through the heartbreak.
Even through the ending.
Even through the ache of saying, “I can’t carry this anymore.”
Sometimes, the best things don’t shout.
They stay quiet.
And close.
They show up not in the big moments,
but in the way you sit with yourself.
In the way you greet others.
In the way you hold space without needing to fill it.
That’s what remains.
And if you’re reading this—
maybe you’ve already noticed it, too.
with quiet trust,
Malte
P.S.
If you’re in a season of after—
after the letting go,
after the shift,
after the silence—
I hope you feel this:
You’re not empty.
You’re becoming.
Next week, I’ll write about beginning again.
Not because we have to start over,
but because we get to.