Sometimes You Just Need To Fucking Move On

There comes a point in some relationships when you have to stop asking how to fix it and start asking why the fuck you're still trying.

Maybe you've been together for years. Maybe it used to be good. Maybe you keep thinking that if you love them a little harder, become a little more understanding, compromise a little more, give in one more time, eventually they'll meet you halfway.

So you move the line. Just this once. Then again. And again. Until one day you look around and realize you've moved so far toward them that you're the only person left doing any moving. It’s no longer a rough patch. The relationship just isn't working.

And sometimes, you just need to fucking move on!

You can’t keep doing both people’s work and call that a relationship.

While scrolling through Substack, I came across a post that got me thinking:

How long do we stay in relationships that have already stopped working?

I’m definitely not turning Willow Creatives into a relationship advice column. God help us all.

But there's something about the way people behave when a relationship ends that feels incredibly familiar to me.

You can’t fuck up your marriage and be angry that it ended.

You can regret the decisions you made.

You can miss the person.

You can wish they'd responded differently.

You can even replay the whole damn thing in your head and come up with seventeen different versions where everybody made better choices, and somehow it all worked out.

But you don't get to pass the bill for the decisions you made to somebody else.

At some point, you have to own your part. And just fucking move on already.

That doesn't mean only one person is ever responsible for a relationship failing.
Relationships are complicated. People hurt each other. Communication breaks down. Sometimes both people fuck up.

Taking responsibility means owning your part. It doesn’t mean making someone else carry the consequences for you.
Repair is one thing. Expecting someone else to keep paying for the damage is another.

Turns out, business relationships aren't that different.

I've stayed with clients I should have left.

I wish I could tell you I've always had impeccable boundaries with clients. That would be hilarious. I've had clients I knew weren't a good fit anymore, and I kept working with them anyway. Clients who paid less but somehow expected more.

More time.
More access.
More accommodation.
More things that were never part of what they were paying for in the first place.

And instead of looking at the relationship and saying, This isn't working, I did what I had spent years learning to do very well.

I tried harder.

Maybe if I do more, she'll be easier to work with.

Maybe if I give in on this one thing, things will get better.

Maybe if I'm more accommodating, there'll be less friction.

Maybe if I just handle it, we can move past this.

I genuinely thought giving more would make the relationship easier. I was wrong. It made it worse.

Because every time I moved the boundary, I taught her where the new boundary was.

The favor became normal. The exception became expected. The thing I agreed to to make the relationship easier became one more thing I was responsible for.

I wasn't fixing the relationship.

I was teaching someone how much I was willing to tolerate to keep it.

That's a shitty realization, but t's also a useful one.

Sometimes we stay because we're scared of what happens if we leave.

This is where business gets particularly good at convincing us to stay in bad relationships. Because there's money involved.

And money can make you tolerate some absolute bullshit if you're scared enough of losing it.

You start doing the math.

That's $X every month.
What happens if I lose that income?
How long will it take me to replace it?
What if nobody else comes along?

And suddenly you're staying with a client you don't want to work with anymore because you're afraid of losing the income.

It's not that different from a marriage that ended emotionally years before anyone packed a suitcase.

There's history.

There's familiarity.

There's the life you've built around the relationship.

There's the fear of what happens without it.

So you stay.

And because you've decided staying is safer than leaving, you start negotiating with yourself instead of addressing what's happening in front of you.

It's not that bad.
I can handle it.
Maybe it'll get better.
We've been together this long.
I've already invested so much.

Just because you’ve invested years in something doesn’t mean you owe it more of them.

Money isn't permission to hold something over my head.

This one has taken me a long time to learn. When someone knows they have something you value, it can quickly change the balance of a relationship.

Money.
A contract.
An opportunity.
A referral.
A connection.
Access.
History.
Whatever.

Sometimes there's an unspoken message underneath it all: You need me, so you'll put up with this.

Nope. Not anymore.

You don't get unlimited access to me because you pay me.

You don't get unlimited access to my team because you're a client.

You don't get to keep moving the goalposts because you're holding a retainer.

And you don't get to use something you have as leverage to make me responsible for shit that belongs to you.

The same applies outside business.

If you made some choices that fucked your marriage, own them.

If you're unhappy with the consequences, deal with them.

If you wish things had gone differently, you're allowed to feel that too.

But you don't get to make somebody else carry your regret because you don't like where your own decisions landed you.

That's yours.

I've spent enough of my life carrying things that belonged to other people.

Walking away from a client became one of the best decisions I ever made.

There was a time when I genuinely feared losing a client.

Financially, walking away felt risky. So, I stayed longer than I should have.
I kept thinking that if I gave more, the relationship would get easier. It didn't.

Eventually, I walked away.
And do you know what happened?

The world continued spinning.
Willow Creatives survived.

More importantly, that client had been occupying a slot. When the slot opened, another client eventually filled it.
A higher-paying client who was also significantly easier to work with.

That experience changed the way I think about losing clients.

Not because I believe firing a difficult client summons a higher-paying one from the universe within three to five business days. No one can guarantee what comes next.

Keeping someone in your business because you're terrified there won't be anyone else guarantees one thing: They continue taking up the space.

The time.
The attention.
The team's capacity.
The energy.
The opportunity to work with somebody who may be a much better fit.

Sometimes you're so focused on what you'll lose by ending something that you never calculate what it's costing you to keep it.

There are other people.

I think we forget this when we are scared.

One client starts to feel incredibly important.

One relationship feels irreplaceable.

One opportunity starts looking like the only opportunity you'll ever have.

It isn't.

Losing a client isn't the end of the fucking world.

I've lost clients before. I'll lose clients again.

Some will leave because their circumstances change.

Some will leave because we've outgrown each other.

Some will leave because I fucked something up.

Some relationships will end because they're simply no longer a good fit.

And sometimes, I'll be the one who leaves.

That's business.
That's also life.

There are people who are more deserving of my time.

Some clients value what we do without expecting us to prove our value by constantly doing more.

Some people respect a boundary without treating it like a personal attack.

In healthy relationships, compromise means both people move.

Some people don't need leverage to keep you around.

You stay because you want to.

That's what I've had to learn. You shouldn't have to lose yourself just to keep a relationship.

Some relationships just aren't meant to be saved.

I'm not suggesting you walk away the first time a client pisses you off. Jesus! If that were the standard, none of us would have clients!

People have bad days.
Miscommunication happens.
Expectations need clarifying.

Good relationships require uncomfortable conversations sometimes.

I'm also not suggesting that we're always the innocent party.

I've fucked things up.
I've made bad decisions.
I've communicated poorly.
I've had to apologize.
I've had to fix things that were absolutely mine to fix.

That's responsibility.
But responsibility goes both ways.

You can communicate.
You can compromise.
You can apologize.
You can change your own behavior.
You can give someone the opportunity to meet you halfway.

What you cannot do is keep doing both people's parts and convince yourself you're saving the relationship.

You cannot do enough to make another person behave differently.

Constantly giving in isn't compromise anymore. It becomes permission.

Permission to expect more.

Permission to cross the line again.

Permission to believe you'll keep staying regardless of what the relationship costs you.

I've done that before. I'm not interested in doing it anymore.

At 40, I'd rather deal with the temporary discomfort of losing something than spend another year negotiating against myself to keep it.

Clients.
Friendships.
Relationships.
Opportunities.
Whatever.

If something only works because I keep giving more than I agreed to, taking responsibility that isn't mine, or letting someone hold something over my head so I'll stay...

It isn't working.

Maybe it did once.
Maybe there were good years.
Maybe I'll miss some things about it.
Maybe ending it will hurt.

That doesn't mean it needs saving.

Sometimes the healthiest thing you can do for a relationship is admit that it's over.

Own whatever part was yours.

Let them own theirs.

And fucking move on already.

What are you still trying to save because you're more afraid of losing it than you are willing to admit what it's costing you to keep?

Business has a way of showing us who we are.

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