The Cruelest Thing Anyone Ever Said To Me Was “Let It Go”

Three words that protect abusers and punish victims. I’m done pretending this is wisdom.

Someone you trusted destroyed you.

They lied. They stole. They manipulated. They gaslit. They threatened. They took years of your life and left you with wreckage and a nervous system that doesn’t work right anymore.

You finally tell someone what happened.

And they look at you with that face. That soft, concerned, I’m about to give you advice face.

And they say it.

“You need to let it go.”

Three words. Exposed nerves wrapped in sandpaper. The most socially acceptable way to tell someone their pain is inconvenient and they need to stop making everyone uncomfortable with it.

I’ve been told to let it go more times than I can count.

Let go of the therapist who spent five years mapping my trauma and then used it to extort $126,000 from me.

Let go of the employer who discriminated against me and then tried to bury the evidence.

Let go of the family members who had me arrested and then acted like I was the problem.

Let it go. Move on. Find peace. Release it.

As if the problem is that I’m holding something. As if I picked this up voluntarily and I’m just too stubborn to put it down.

“Let it go is not advice. It’s a request for you to stop making other people uncomfortable with your unresolved pain.”

I want to be very clear about what “let it go” actually means when someone says it to you.

It means: Your pain is inconvenient for me.

It means: I don’t want to hear about this anymore.

It means: I have no intention of helping you and I need you to stop asking.

It means: The person who hurt you matters more to me than you do. Or at least, my comfort matters more than your justice.

It means: Be quiet.

That’s it. That’s all it’s ever meant.

The Lie Inside The Advice

There’s a premise buried inside “let it go” that nobody examines.

The premise is that holding onto what happened to you is a choice. That you’re actively gripping this thing and you could simply open your hand if you wanted to.

That’s not how trauma works. That’s not how injustice works. That’s not how any of this works.

You don’t hold onto abuse. Abuse holds onto you.

It rewires your nervous system. It changes how you sleep. It changes how you trust. It changes the voice inside your head and the assumptions you make about safety and the way you move through the world.

You can’t “let go” of something that’s been encoded into your body.

“You don’t hold onto abuse. Abuse holds onto you.”

And even if you could. Even if releasing it was as simple as deciding to release it. Why should you?

Why is the expectation that victims do the emotional labor of absolving what happened to them? Why is the person who was harmed responsible for cleaning up the mess someone else made?

The person who hurt you isn’t being told to let anything go. They’re living their life. They’re fine. They’re probably doing the same thing to someone else right now.

But you. You’re supposed to release it. Find peace. Move on.

For whose benefit exactly?

Who “Let It Go” Actually Protects

I want you to think about every time someone told you to let it go.

Now think about who benefited from your silence.

Was it you?

Or was it the person who hurt you? Or the institution that enabled them? Or the family system that didn’t want to be disrupted? Or the friend group that didn’t want to pick sides?

“Let it go” is not neutral advice. It’s a position. And the position is: don’t make trouble.

Don’t file the complaint. Don’t pursue the lawsuit. Don’t tell the truth at Thanksgiving. Don’t make everyone deal with the consequences of what happened.

Just let it go.

“Every time someone tells you to let it go, ask yourself who benefits from your silence.”

This is how abusers stay in power. Not because they’re protected by some shadowy conspiracy. But because everyone around them asks their victims to be quiet for the sake of peace.

The family that tells you to forgive your abusive parent is protecting the family structure, not you.

The workplace that tells you to move past what your manager did is protecting the company, not you.

The friend group that tells you to let go of what your ex did is protecting their social comfort, not you.

You are being asked to sacrifice your truth so other people don’t have to feel awkward.

And they frame it as advice. As wisdom. As healing.

It’s not. It’s cowardice wearing a cardigan.

The Cruelty Is The Dismissal

Here’s what actually happens when someone tells you to let it go.

You were already doubting yourself. Abuse does that. Manipulation does that. Gaslighting does that. You’ve been questioning your own perception for months or years.

And then you finally get brave enough to tell someone. You finally open your mouth and say the thing out loud.

And they dismiss it.

Three words and your entire experience is reduced to something you’re doing wrong. Something you’re holding incorrectly. A problem with your grip instead of a problem with what was done to you.

You walked in carrying the weight of what happened.

You leave carrying that weight plus shame for still carrying it.

“You walked in carrying the weight of what happened. You leave carrying that weight plus shame for still carrying it.”

That’s the cruelty. Not just the dismissal. The doubling. Now you feel bad about what happened AND you feel bad about not being over it.

Now you stop telling people. Now you perform being fine. Now you carry it alone because the alternative is being told you’re carrying it wrong.

The next time someone does this to another person, you might even say it yourself.

“Just let it go.”

Because that’s how this spreads. Hurt people don’t just hurt people. Dismissed people dismiss people.

What I Actually Needed

You know what would have helped?

“That’s fucked up. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

That’s it. That’s the whole thing.

Not advice. Not perspective. Not a gentle suggestion that I should release my attachment to my own lived experience.

Just acknowledgment that something bad happened and it makes sense that I’m affected by it.

I didn’t need someone to fix it. I didn’t need a solution. I didn’t need wisdom or frameworks or the name of a good therapist.

I needed someone to say: Yeah. That’s real. That counts. You’re not crazy.

“I didn’t need advice. I needed someone to say: Yeah. That’s real. That counts. You’re not crazy.”

Instead I got “let it go” from people who had never been through anything like what I’d been through. People who had functional families and safe jobs and partners who didn’t manipulate them.

People who had the luxury of believing that bad things only happen to people who hold onto them too tightly.

Must be nice.

Letting Go Is A Luxury

There are people who can let things go.

Their wound was a single event. It had a clear ending. The person who hurt them is out of their life. They have support systems to help them process. They have financial stability. They have safety.

For them, letting go is possible. Maybe even healthy.

But that’s not everyone.

Some of us are still in it. Still fighting. Still surviving. Still dealing with the consequences daily.

You can’t let go of something that’s still happening.

You can’t release your grip on something that’s still gripping you.

You can’t find peace with someone who’s still at war with you.

“You can’t let go of something that’s still happening.”

I’m still in a lawsuit with my therapist. It’s active right now. She’s still practicing. She still has patients who don’t know what she did.

What exactly am I supposed to let go of?

Should I drop the case? Should I stop pursuing justice? Should I pretend it didn’t happen so everyone feels more comfortable?

That’s what “let it go” means in my situation. It means: stop fighting. Accept what happened. Let her win.

No.

What I Do Instead

I don’t let go. I document.

I don’t release. I build a case.

I don’t find peace. I pursue justice.

And I talk about it. Publicly. In detail. With evidence.

Because silence protects predators. And “let it go” is just a polite way of asking for silence.

Every time I write about what happened to me, someone reaches out and says “this happened to me too.”

Every time I name a pattern, someone recognizes it in their own life.

Every time I refuse to be quiet, someone else gets a little braver about their own story.

That’s what not letting go does.

It creates evidence. It builds community. It exposes patterns. It makes it harder for the next predator to operate undetected.

“Silence protects predators. ‘Let it go’ is just a polite way of asking for silence.”

Letting go might bring me peace. But not letting go might protect someone else.

I’ll take that trade.

The Permission You Didn’t Know You Needed

If someone told you to let it go and it felt like a punch in the stomach, trust that feeling.

Your body knew before your brain did. That wasn’t wisdom. That was dismissal.

You’re allowed to not let go.

You’re allowed to be angry for as long as you’re angry.

You’re allowed to pursue justice even if it makes people uncomfortable.

You’re allowed to talk about what happened even if others are tired of hearing it.

You’re allowed to hold onto your story because it’s YOUR story and nobody else gets to decide when you’re done with it.

The people who hurt you aren’t losing sleep. The systems that failed you aren’t being kept awake by guilt. The institutions that enabled your abuse aren’t lying in bed wondering if they should let it go.

Only you are being asked to do that.

Ask yourself why.

“You’re allowed to hold onto your story because it’s YOUR story and nobody else gets to decide when you’re done with it.”

What To Say When Someone Tells You To Let It Go

You have options.

“I’m not ready to do that.”

“That’s not what I need right now.”

“I didn’t ask for advice on how to feel.”

“I needed you to listen, not fix.”

Or my personal favorite:

“I’ll let it go when there’s justice. Until then, I’m holding on tight.”

You don’t owe anyone your healing on their timeline.

You don’t owe anyone a performance of peace you haven’t actually found.

You don’t owe anyone release, forgiveness, grace, or any other word people use when they want you to be quieter about what happened.

The Only Thing I’m Letting Go Of

I’m letting go of the idea that my pain is a problem to be managed.

I’m letting go of performing recovery for other people’s comfort.

I’m letting go of apologizing for not being over it yet.

I’m letting go of the people who made me feel broken for still being affected by something that would have broken anyone.

That’s what I’m releasing.

The rest of it? The truth of what happened? The pursuit of justice? The refusal to be silent?

I’m holding onto that with both hands.

“I’m letting go of the people who made me feel broken for still being affected by something that would have broken anyone.”

If someone ever told you to let it go and it made you feel crazy, you weren’t crazy. You were being dismissed by someone who wanted their comfort more than your healing.

Don’t let go. Not until you’re ready. Not until it’s your choice. Not because someone else decided your timeline for you.

Your pain is not an inconvenience. Your story is not a burden. Your truth does not have an expiration date.

Hold on.

— Cody Taymore

Kill The Silence