How do you know when you’re done?

It can be tricky, not knowing when you’re done with something or someone. I know I’ve dragged things on for the wrong reasons, other times I’ve walked away not knowing whether I was smart to leave or a coward for quitting. I’ve prayed for an epiphany, a divine intervention, or at the very least, a supernatural neon sign blinking as brightly like one over a cheap Vegas motel. If only there was a way to be sure.

There isn’t. Yeah, you get lucky every now and then, but I can’t rely on that. So I sit, often times, when I get fed up, and I stop listening to the noise. I pay attention to what my gut is saying, to how I’m feeling. I usually have to force myself, and not just for a few moments – hey, everyone has their bad days, or months – but for a while. The busyness we surround ourselves with douses the real questions and we can’t figure them out, or get tired too quickly when we try. Then I write about it, asking myself the real reason, not just the easy excuse. What would happen if I did it, or if I didn’t? Would it hurt anyone, or am I people pleasing again and hurting myself? So many layers, so much noise to get through.

Eventually, when I stop avoiding and start facing, there’s usually an answer. Maybe one I already knew but didn’t want to admit, or work for. Also doubts. But they are in the background. What isn’t there is a gong that rings out loud, or fireworks that light up the sky, no moment of absolute fearlessness, and alas, no Vegas neon sign. It’s just me, in the quiet, trying to convince myself to be brave and being certain I can’t, then moving forward. And that has to be good enough.

The last line of the novel.

The final brushstroke on the painting.

The last goodbye, ending with a hug or a click.

That’s when you’re done. Ready or not, you’re moving on.