You Can’t Heal a Wound You Keep Touching: Gita on When to Hold On and When to Let Go
Riya Kumari | Jul 31, 2025, 23:43 IST
( Image credit : Pixabay )
You know that thing we all do? The obsessive checking. The scrolling through old texts like they’re dead sea scrolls holding the answers to your emotional turmoil. The inner monologue that sounds suspiciously like a dramatic Netflix voiceover: “If he cared, why did he leave me on read?” Yeah. That. The Bhagavad Gita, has a word for it: Let. Go.
There comes a point. After the tears, after the overthinking, after the quiet pretending that you're fine, there comes a point when even the most stubborn soul knows: this cannot go on. You’ve loved the fire. Not because it kept you warm, but because you thought, maybe this time, I won’t get burned. And then you do. Again. You know it's an illusion. A loop. A story you keep rewriting in your head hoping the ending will change. But deep down, another voice has started whispering: This isn’t healing. This is haunting. It’s here the Gita stands quietly beside you, not like a preacher, but like a mirror. Not to shame your love, but to help you wake up from the trance of it. “He who is not disturbed by happiness and distress and is steady in both is certainly eligible for liberation.” Bhagavad Gita 2.15
You didn’t fall in love with a person. You fell in love with a possibility. The idea that this time, it would be different.
That this person would stay. That this version of you, the one who forgave too quickly and hoped too fiercely—would finally be enough.
And for a while, it worked. You felt alive. Lit up. Burned red with meaning. But slowly, reality crept back in: the silences, the games, the moments where you betrayed yourself just to be chosen. You told yourself it was loyalty. But truthfully, it was fear of letting go. Fear of the emptiness after the fire goes out.
“From attachment, desire is born. From desire, anger arises. From anger comes delusion; from delusion, loss of memory; from loss of memory, the destruction of intelligence; and from destruction of intelligence, he perishes.” Bhagavad Gita 2.62–63
It’s okay. Really. Some of us are wired to love deeply. To pour. To hold on a little longer than we should. It’s not weakness. It’s not foolishness. It’s just... the human condition. The Gita never condemns your heart—it only questions where you’ve placed it. The fire isn’t evil. It just isn’t stable.
Some people walk into your life as teachers, not companions. They don’t come to stay. They come to show. Your need. Your ache. Your hunger to be seen. And when they leave, they don’t take your worth with them. They leave you with something far more sacred: the lesson.
“You have the right to perform your duty, but not to the fruits of your actions.” Bhagavad Gita 2.47
You revisit the chats. You rewrite the ending in your head. You pretend the red flags were fireworks. You touch the pain, not because you’re a masochist, but because in some broken part of your mind, the wound is still evidence of how deeply you cared. You don’t want to forget. But here’s the thing: Healing isn’t forgetting. Healing is remembering without relapsing.
Detachment, as Krishna teaches, isn’t indifference. It’s clarity. It’s the soul saying, I see it all. And I choose to walk away anyway. Not with bitterness. But with understanding.
Yes, you know. There will come a day when you’ll wake up, and the fire will be gone. The craving will be quiet. The ache will have softened into wisdom. And on that day, you won’t feel triumphant. You’ll feel still. Not victorious, just free. Because the lesson is not that the fire was wrong.
The lesson is that you were never meant to live in it. You’re meant for something gentler. More rooted. Less hungry. You’re meant for the kind of peace that doesn’t ask you to chase or perform or shrink.
“One who has conquered the mind, and remains centered in the Self, is already beyond heat and cold, pleasure and pain, and so is poised for liberation.” Bhagavad Gita 6.7
So if you find yourself tonight, staring at your ceiling, phone in hand, heart halfway between nostalgia and rage—ask yourself gently: Am I healing, or am I hoping the fire returns? And if the answer is the latter, don’t hate yourself. Just pause. Put the phone down. Breathe. And remember this:
You are allowed to outgrow what once consumed you.
You are allowed to walk away from what you once begged to stay.
And no, letting go doesn’t mean it meant nothing.
It just means you finally understand what it meant.
And now, you’re ready to stop touching the wound.
The Fire Was Beautiful. But It Was Never Yours.
That this person would stay. That this version of you, the one who forgave too quickly and hoped too fiercely—would finally be enough.
And for a while, it worked. You felt alive. Lit up. Burned red with meaning. But slowly, reality crept back in: the silences, the games, the moments where you betrayed yourself just to be chosen. You told yourself it was loyalty. But truthfully, it was fear of letting go. Fear of the emptiness after the fire goes out.
“From attachment, desire is born. From desire, anger arises. From anger comes delusion; from delusion, loss of memory; from loss of memory, the destruction of intelligence; and from destruction of intelligence, he perishes.” Bhagavad Gita 2.62–63
But What If I Loved the Fire?
Some people walk into your life as teachers, not companions. They don’t come to stay. They come to show. Your need. Your ache. Your hunger to be seen. And when they leave, they don’t take your worth with them. They leave you with something far more sacred: the lesson.
“You have the right to perform your duty, but not to the fruits of your actions.” Bhagavad Gita 2.47
You Keep Touching the Wound Because It Still Feels Like Love
Detachment, as Krishna teaches, isn’t indifference. It’s clarity. It’s the soul saying, I see it all. And I choose to walk away anyway. Not with bitterness. But with understanding.
When You Finally Wake Up and It All Vanishes
The lesson is that you were never meant to live in it. You’re meant for something gentler. More rooted. Less hungry. You’re meant for the kind of peace that doesn’t ask you to chase or perform or shrink.
“One who has conquered the mind, and remains centered in the Self, is already beyond heat and cold, pleasure and pain, and so is poised for liberation.” Bhagavad Gita 6.7
Let It Scar. Let It Seal. Let It Go
You are allowed to outgrow what once consumed you.
You are allowed to walk away from what you once begged to stay.
And no, letting go doesn’t mean it meant nothing.
It just means you finally understand what it meant.
And now, you’re ready to stop touching the wound.