Sunday from the Porch
The Gift of Ruin
“It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends.”
—Joan Didion, Goodbye to All That
I have always thought we underestimate how much of our lives are shaped by ruin.
Especially the quieter versions of ruin. The relationships that lose their alignment. The service that starts to feel like work. And the work that starts to feel heavier than it should. The structures we’ve built that no longer hold in the same way.
We tend to resist those moments. Or rush to replace them. But most of the places we admire carry their history in what’s been broken down and rebuilt. Old cities. Natural landscapes. Even the stories we return to. What remains isn’t untouched. It’s weathered. It’s shaped by what didn’t last.
Ruin isn’t the opposite of progress. It’s often part of it.
Sometimes it happens to us. And sometimes, if we’re paying attention, it’s something we have to choose to actively opt-in to.
I recently stepped away from one of the most meaningful collaborative relationships I’ve had in recent years.
It was a client that, for a long time, acted as a kind of safety net, especially while I was traveling. It filled in the gaps. It made things feel more stable. But over time, something shifted. The reliability I had built a life around started to erode. And gradually, without calling it out directly, I found myself adjusting to compensate.
At a certain point, it stopped feeling like support and started feeling like drag.
So I let it go.
There wasn’t a replacement waiting. There still isn’t, in any clear or immediate way. Just a stretch of open space where something consistent used to be. And if I’m honest, that kind of space comes with a level of uncertainty that doesn’t fully go away, no matter how many times you’ve been through it.
But I’ve seen a version of this pattern before.
A few years ago, I packed up everything I owned in Philadelphia with the intention of moving to Ireland. I sold what I could, let go of the rest, and booked a one-way ticket with less than $1,000 in my account. After the flight, I had less than half of that left. It wasn’t reckless in my mind. I remember thinking, very clearly, “I know it’ll be okay.” Not because I had a plan but because I trusted my ability to respond once I got there.
And something shifted almost immediately.
Clients I had been in conversation with for years finally committed. Retainers came through. Almost everything I sold moved quickly, often at or above what I had paid for it. It felt like the moment I created space, things started to move toward it.
I’ve experienced some version of that more than once. Not every time or even with perfect destruction or severance. But enough to recognize the shape of it.
You let something go. There’s a moment (or stretch) of emptiness, uncertainty and the unknown, where nothing has filled in yet. And then, sometimes unexpectedly, things begin to arrive: opportunities, support, momentum. Critical things. Not always in the way you imagined, but in a way that meets the space you created.
I don’t think that pattern is guaranteed. It probably depends on how honest you’re willing to be with yourself in the first place. What you’re actually letting go of. And, why. But I trust it enough to pay attention when I feel it starting again.
For me, it’s not just about the work itself. It’s about how the work is done. The rhythm of it. The mutual respect. The sense that both sides are showing up in a way that makes the whole thing better, not heavier.
When that starts to slip, it doesn’t usually correct itself on its own.
So you make a call. You create a little bit of ruin where something no longer fits. You clear it out, even if you don’t know exactly what’s going to replace it yet.
And then you sit with the space.
Right now, I’m there.
Over the next few days, something will take shape. A new client could come in. One of the projects I’ve been building quietly could land. Or I could feel the full weight of the decision financially before anything replaces it.
All of those are real possibilities.
And still, this feels like the right move.
There’s a difference between something being difficult and something being wrong. It’s easy to confuse the two, especially when stability is involved. We hold onto what works. Until we realize we’re the ones doing the extra work to keep it working.
At some point, you have to decide what you’re willing to build around. Not everything fills in immediately. But that doesn’t make the clearing wrong. If anything, it might be the part that makes whatever comes next possible.