The Art of Grit

(7 Minutes)

Sometimes I think the real test of love isn’t how tightly we can hold on — it’s how gently we can let go.

Not in the sense of giving up or stepping away, but in the quieter way of trusting someone to be themselves without constantly reaching out to shape them.

It’s strange how easily the lines can blur. One minute you’re loving someone with everything you’ve got, and the next, without even realizing it, you’re nudging, steering, tightening the circle. All in the name of care. All in the name of closeness.

But love, the real kind, isn’t about drawing people closer until they can’t move. It’s about giving them enough room to grow, even when that growth pulls them into unfamiliar territory.

Anne Truitt, an artist whose journals I admire, once wrote about her lifelong fight to stay loyal to her own autonomy.

That line stopped me when I first read it. It made me realize: it’s not just our own autonomy we have to be loyal to. It’s the autonomy of the people we love too.

When most people talk about love, they focus on connection.

On togetherness, on support, on sharing a life.

And those are beautiful parts of love — essential parts.

But there’s another side that doesn’t get as much attention.

It’s quieter, less obvious, but just as important.

It’s the way real love gives people the freedom to be themselves.

How it offers room, not just closeness.

How it trusts instead of controls.

If you think about it, a lot of what we call love can easily slip into something else — attachment, fear, even control — without us realizing it.

We hold on because we care, but sometimes we hold on too tightly.

We start to shape someone’s choices, their behaviors, even their identity, without meaning any harm.

And before we know it, love becomes less about seeing the other person clearly, and more about trying to make them fit into our version of what makes us feel safe.

That’s not love at its best.

Love at its best protects and honors the autonomy of the other person — even when it’s hard.

Even when it would be easier to ask them to stay the same for our own comfort.

The artist and writer Anne Truitt put this into words in a way that has always stuck with me.

She said:

“I have struggled all my life to preserve my own autonomy, and I have fought hard to be loyal to it.”

It’s a simple line, but if you sit with it for a minute, you realize how much strength it takes to do what she describes — to stay loyal to yourself.

And maybe just as important: how much strength it takes to be loyal to someone else’s autonomy, too.

In relationships, this can look like a lot of different things.

It can mean letting a friend drift into new interests or new communities without guilt-tripping them.

It can mean watching a partner evolve into someone you didn’t quite expect, and choosing to support them anyway.

It can even mean recognizing when a child is becoming their own person — not a reflection of you — and allowing that process to unfold without constantly stepping in.

None of this is passive.

Giving someone autonomy isn’t about indifference or pulling away.

It’s about being deeply present while resisting the urge to steer.

It’s hard.

Because autonomy in love asks us to manage our own insecurities.

It asks us to make peace with the fact that the people we love are not ours to mold.

They belong to themselves.

And they always have.

If you think about your own life, you probably already know what this feels like from the inside.

Think about a time when someone gave you real space to be yourself — not because you earned it, not because you behaved the “right” way, but simply because they trusted your right to exist as you are.

That kind of support feels different.

It doesn’t feel heavy or transactional.

It feels light, strengthening, and somehow more secure, even though there are fewer obvious “rules” to it.

When we talk about unconditional love, I think this is what we’re really getting at — not love without boundaries, but love without ownership.

Anne Truitt’s reflections on autonomy remind us that staying loyal to ourselves isn’t easy — and by extension, staying loyal to the autonomy of others isn’t easy either.

It takes maturity to let people you love change, grow, make mistakes, and explore paths you might not choose for them.

It takes courage to trust that your connection doesn’t have to be based on sameness, or certainty, or constant proximity.

And it takes a whole lot of grace.

Because sometimes people will grow in ways that are uncomfortable to us.

Sometimes they’ll pursue things that seem risky, or foreign, or even a little heartbreaking from the outside.

Our instinct might be to intervene, to pull them back, to “help” them course-correct.

But often, the most loving thing we can do is stand beside them with an open hand instead of a closed one.

This doesn’t mean we never speak up if we’re worried.

Or that we become passive in relationships.

Real love still involves communication, care, and sometimes, tough conversations.

But at its heart, love that respects autonomy says:

“I see you. I support you. I trust you to live your own life, even when it’s hard for me to watch.”

It’s not flashy.

It doesn’t always look heroic from the outside.

But it’s one of the purest gifts we can give — to ourselves and to the people we care about.

I’ll be honest: I’m still learning how to do this well.

Sometimes I catch myself wanting to hold on too tightly, to “protect” someone by nudging them toward what feels safer or more familiar.

But when I step back and think about the kind of love I want to receive — the kind that makes me feel strong, trusted, and free — I realize that’s the kind of love I want to offer, too.

And when I look at the people who have given me that gift — the ones who allowed me to stumble, to change, to dream differently — I realize those are the relationships that have lasted.

Because they weren’t based on control.

They were based on loyalty — not to a frozen image of who I was, but to my ability to keep becoming who I’m meant to be.

In the end, that’s the kind of loyalty that matters.

The loyalty to someone’s right to be themselves, even if that self grows beyond what we first knew.

As Anne Truitt fought to stay loyal to her own autonomy, we can practice being loyal to the autonomy of those we love.

It’s not always easy.

But it’s real.

And in the long run, real love is the only kind that truly lasts.

Would you also like a little short author’s note you could add at the bottom if you want it to feel even more personal? (Some people like adding a little 1–2 line postscript for connection.)

I can write that for you too if you want!

(7 Minutes)

Of course! Here’s the full version, clean and ready for you to copy — with the more natural title, the personal blog-style opening, and the full article body blended together:

The Space Between Us: Where Love Learns to Breathe

Sometimes I think the real test of love isn’t how tightly we can hold on — it’s how gently we can let go.

Not in the sense of giving up or stepping away, but in the quieter way of trusting someone to be themselves without constantly reaching out to shape them.

It’s strange how easily the lines can blur. One minute you’re loving someone with everything you’ve got, and the next, without even realizing it, you’re nudging, steering, tightening the circle. All in the name of care. All in the name of closeness.

But love, the real kind, isn’t about drawing people closer until they can’t move. It’s about giving them enough room to grow, even when that growth pulls them into unfamiliar territory.

Anne Truitt, an artist whose journals I admire, once wrote about her lifelong fight to stay loyal to her own autonomy.

That line stopped me when I first read it. It made me realize: it’s not just our own autonomy we have to be loyal to. It’s the autonomy of the people we love too.

When most people talk about love, they focus on connection.

On togetherness, on support, on sharing a life.

And those are beautiful parts of love — essential parts.

But there’s another side that doesn’t get as much attention.

It’s quieter, less obvious, but just as important.

It’s the way real love gives people the freedom to be themselves.

How it offers room, not just closeness.

How it trusts instead of controls.

If you think about it, a lot of what we call love can easily slip into something else — attachment, fear, even control — without us realizing it.

We hold on because we care, but sometimes we hold on too tightly.

We start to shape someone’s choices, their behaviors, even their identity, without meaning any harm.

And before we know it, love becomes less about seeing the other person clearly, and more about trying to make them fit into our version of what makes us feel safe.

That’s not love at its best.

Love at its best protects and honors the autonomy of the other person — even when it’s hard.

Even when it would be easier to ask them to stay the same for our own comfort.

The artist and writer Anne Truitt put this into words in a way that has always stuck with me.

She said:

“I have struggled all my life to preserve my own autonomy, and I have fought hard to be loyal to it.”

It’s a simple line, but if you sit with it for a minute, you realize how much strength it takes to do what she describes — to stay loyal to yourself.

And maybe just as important: how much strength it takes to be loyal to someone else’s autonomy, too.

In relationships, this can look like a lot of different things.

It can mean letting a friend drift into new interests or new communities without guilt-tripping them.

It can mean watching a partner evolve into someone you didn’t quite expect, and choosing to support them anyway.

It can even mean recognizing when a child is becoming their own person — not a reflection of you — and allowing that process to unfold without constantly stepping in.

None of this is passive.

Giving someone autonomy isn’t about indifference or pulling away.

It’s about being deeply present while resisting the urge to steer.

It’s hard.

Because autonomy in love asks us to manage our own insecurities.

It asks us to make peace with the fact that the people we love are not ours to mold.

They belong to themselves.

And they always have.

If you think about your own life, you probably already know what this feels like from the inside.

Think about a time when someone gave you real space to be yourself — not because you earned it, not because you behaved the “right” way, but simply because they trusted your right to exist as you are.

That kind of support feels different.

It doesn’t feel heavy or transactional.

It feels light, strengthening, and somehow more secure, even though there are fewer obvious “rules” to it.

When we talk about unconditional love, I think this is what we’re really getting at — not love without boundaries, but love without ownership.

Anne Truitt’s reflections on autonomy remind us that staying loyal to ourselves isn’t easy — and by extension, staying loyal to the autonomy of others isn’t easy either.

It takes maturity to let people you love change, grow, make mistakes, and explore paths you might not choose for them.

It takes courage to trust that your connection doesn’t have to be based on sameness, or certainty, or constant proximity.

And it takes a whole lot of grace.

Because sometimes people will grow in ways that are uncomfortable to us.

Sometimes they’ll pursue things that seem risky, or foreign, or even a little heartbreaking from the outside.

Our instinct might be to intervene, to pull them back, to “help” them course-correct.

But often, the most loving thing we can do is stand beside them with an open hand instead of a closed one.

This doesn’t mean we never speak up if we’re worried.

Or that we become passive in relationships.

Real love still involves communication, care, and sometimes, tough conversations.

But at its heart, love that respects autonomy says:

“I see you. I support you. I trust you to live your own life, even when it’s hard for me to watch.”

It’s not flashy.

It doesn’t always look heroic from the outside.

But it’s one of the purest gifts we can give — to ourselves and to the people we care about.

I’ll be honest: I’m still learning how to do this well.

Sometimes I catch myself wanting to hold on too tightly, to “protect” someone by nudging them toward what feels safer or more familiar.

But when I step back and think about the kind of love I want to receive — the kind that makes me feel strong, trusted, and free — I realize that’s the kind of love I want to offer, too.

And when I look at the people who have given me that gift — the ones who allowed me to stumble, to change, to dream differently — I realize those are the relationships that have lasted.

Because they weren’t based on control.

They were based on loyalty — not to a frozen image of who I was, but to my ability to keep becoming who I’m meant to be.

In the end, that’s the kind of loyalty that matters.

The loyalty to someone’s right to be themselves, even if that self grows beyond what we first knew.

As Anne Truitt fought to stay loyal to her own autonomy, we can practice being loyal to the autonomy of those we love.

It’s not always easy.

But it’s real.

And in the long run, real love is the only kind that truly lasts.