The Art of Saying Goodbye

Or, when to tell when a relationship, place, or event feels like it's been enough.

Hanging out in Hong Kong

Life is full of beginnings and endings, and yet we seem to find it so hard to say goodbye. It feels easy walk out of the classroom after signing yearbooks at the end of the school year. We tell each other to have a nice day or enjoy your week to the cashier as we leave with our bags of groceries. 

Yet when it comes to the bigger stuff, we seem to hesitate. What is it about knowing when the end of a relationship is near or when we decide to embrace our mortality that makes us squirm? Is there a way to acknowledge that the relationship/event/whatever it is enough as is, to say goodbye and appreciate it for what it was?

I knew that my relationship with the guy I dated during my stint in South Korea was going to end as soon as we hooked up. I did not expect to be so swept up — our first date playing snooker at an expat bar wasn’t my idea of anything more than a casual meeting. We spoke about what most transient folks do: when we arrived and whether we were thinking about staying another year. Having gotten off the plane a week prior, I had no clue how to answer the second question. His work contract ended in January, six months from the time we met.

There was no formal conversation about breaking up, but the low hum of his final day in South Korea was always in the background. From conversations of countries we visited during national holidays, to discussing documentaries we just watched, it was obvious our time together had an expiration date.

We had a last night out six months later. It was a dinner with dishes full of grilled meat, banchan, and (of course) rice. And my gosh, the kimchi and soju were overflowing. 

We spilled out into the cold winter night, him wrapping his arms around me as I tried not to shiver. We went across the street to a Middle Eastern-inspired bar, sitting on the floor and swapping teaching stories. I would look over at him and smile, and he’d do the same.

The next day, he’d walk me to the metro station about a 15 minute walk from his apartment. As I was about to swipe my T-money Card, we looked at each other and hugged for what seemed like hours. Pulling away, he said see ya later. I told him to have a safe flight back and thanked him for the time we were able to spend together.

I never spoke to him again.

Knowing several folks in their late 70s and 80s, the talk of mortality is always around the corner. Sometimes they explicitly reference death, and at times, the conversations skirt around it. The ultimate goodbye, as it seems, feels big and heavy. I know I’m scared to think about it sometimes - but really, who wants to look back and reflect on whether they’ve done enough with their life?

A relative of mine talks about driving across the country. It’s almost all he talks about. Me, thinking that he’s an avid traveler, started talking to him one day over lunch about possible adventures. So much to see between the south and the northeast! How can one possibly choose where to exit on the freeway?

He then starts talking about the cabin. How he’s visited every summer and (sometimes) winter when weather permits. His wife whispers to me the cabin is his property he inherited from his father and has owned it for decades. It’s where he took his children, grandchild and on multiple hunting trips. 

He pulls out photos of the cabin over the years and passes it around. I see a place with four walls, some small windows and luscious fields spotted with bare dirt patches and dandelions. I admire the interior photos of the furniture, wall panels and an angry bear carved out of a single log. I complimented the place and remarked it must hold a special place in his heart. 

As we back out of the relative’s driveway, my husband tells me it’ll probably be the last time he’ll see the cabin again. His health is not good. 

Does going back to a place you loved so much count as a goodbye? How do you thank a seemingly nondescript building, when it represents one of the many ways where someone has lived a full life?

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I think about China a lot. It’s where I met my husband, fell in love and got married. It’s also where my son was born. So much happened in the eight years I lived there.

In the last 12 months before we left, I knew our time was up. I loved the people I’ve met, the places I frequented, the locals who tease me for not knowing enough Chinese slang. And yet, I believed I spent enough time there. We needed to move on.  

On a regular Wednesday morning a few weeks before our flight, I took the bus 40 minutes across town. Walking up to a school I used to work at, the security guards recognized me when I was 10 feet away. We hugged and they let me in to say hi to some former coworkers. A teacher let me walk through my old classroom to see what has changed (some of the signs I made were still there). 

I took a taxi (with an incredibly chatty driver who told me I didn’t look like I was raising a child) to the maternity hospital where my son gave birth. I walked in, sat at the lobby — with, I kid you not, several chandeliers dripping from the ceiling and tufted sofas with silver fabric — for 10 minutes and silently thanked the staff for taking care of me during my stay there.

The day before we left, I took my son back to the place where we took his first passport photo. The owner remarked how big he’d grown. We walked around the park, where he first touched grass and threw up before I took him to the local clinic. At night, my husband and I grabbed dinner at the place where we ate the first night he arrived in China (I was the unofficial welcome committee). He joked it was where we had our first date.  

With three large suitcases 20 days later, we boarded the ferry headed to Hong Kong International Airport. I teared up and said goodbye my friend to nobody and everybody as we disembarked.  

If I ever go back, I know it won’t be the same as when we lived there. Saying goodbye all those years ago meant understanding that everything had its time and place. I can appreciate that things come and go. That experiencing closure means we continue to practice the art of enough, and leave room for more adventures to come. 

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How do you know when the current iteration of a relationship or situation is enough? How do you say goodbye? Leave a comment down below and let me know!