Releasing what no longer serves: a Buddhist guide to moving on

Let’s be honest. Getting over someone hurts like hell.

Whether it was a long-term relationship, a brief but intense connection, or even an unreciprocated love, the end feels like a ripping apart of who you thought you were—with them, for them, or because of them.

You’re probably here because your heart feels heavy, your mind won’t stop spinning, and everything reminds you of them. Maybe friends are telling you to “just move on,” but that feels impossible. You’re not just letting go of a person—you’re letting go of hopes, identity, and maybe even your sense of safety.

I’ve been there too. Years ago, I found myself reeling from the end of a relationship I didn’t see coming. As a psychology graduate and someone who’s spent over a decade studying Buddhist philosophy, I should have known how to cope. But theory doesn’t stop tears. What helped, ultimately, wasn’t pushing my feelings away—it was meeting them with honesty and learning how to release them without letting them define me.

In this article, I’ll walk with you through what it really takes to get over someone. No clichés. No pretending it’s easy. Just real tools, reflective insights, and some gentle, honest questions to guide you out of the fog.

We’ll cover:

• Why traditional advice often misses the point 
• How non-attachment (a powerful Buddhist principle) can change your healing process 
• Practical ways to begin releasing emotional hold 
• A mindfulness lens that reframes the experience 
• A personal story that might just mirror your own 

The trap of “Just move on”

Let’s start by calling out the common advice for what it is—well-meaning but shallow.

“Time heals all wounds.”
“You deserve better.”
“Get back out there!”

These phrases, though comforting on the surface, skip over something crucial: grief. You’re not just missing the person; you’re grieving the future you imagined with them. You’re grieving the version of you that existed in relation to them.

And grief doesn’t follow a timeline. It doesn’t obey logic. What’s more, clinging to the idea that you should be over it by now only fuels shame and self-blame.

So instead of pretending you’re fine, I want you to ask yourself a gentler question:

What part of this person am I still holding onto—and why?

This isn’t about blame. It’s about clarity.

Maybe you’re holding onto the way they made you feel wanted. Or maybe you believed they were your last shot at love. Maybe losing them reopened wounds that go deeper than the relationship itself.

When you get clear on what exactly you’re mourning, the healing becomes less vague—and more human.

Practicing non-attachment

One of the most liberating Buddhist teachings I’ve encountered is the concept of non-attachment.

Now, let me clarify something: Non-attachment doesn’t mean not caring. It doesn’t mean numbing yourself or pretending love didn’t matter. It means recognizing that clinging—to people, outcomes, or identities—creates suffering.

When I was struggling to get over that breakup, I noticed how I wasn’t just missing her—I was attached to who I was when I was with her. I was chasing memories like they were oxygen. I replayed conversations, tried to reinterpret silences, and kept hoping for closure that never came.

But here’s what clicked for me one evening, sitting quietly on my meditation cushion:

“I’m not in pain because she left. I’m in pain because I won’t stop holding onto the version of reality where she didn’t.”

That realization broke something open. I wasn’t grieving the present—I was resisting it.

A thought that helped me around this time was Pema Chödrön’s. She said:

“Nothing ever goes away until it has taught us what we need to know.”

There’s wisdom hidden in our heartbreak—not as punishment, but as a teacher. The pain stays because it’s trying to show us something: maybe how we abandon ourselves in relationships, maybe how we over-identify with love, or maybe how much we’ve grown since.

So instead of forcing yourself to “get over it,” try asking:

• What do I think this person gave me that I can’t give myself? 
• What identity am I afraid to lose now that they’re gone? 
• Can I allow this moment to be exactly what it is, without wishing it were different? 

These aren’t comfortable questions. But they’re powerful. They create space between you and the pain. And in that space, healing begins.

Tools to begin the release

While reflection is essential, you’ll also need some grounded practices to anchor your emotional process.

Here are a few that I’ve personally used and found effective:

1. The “Letter You’ll Never Send” exercise

Write them a letter. Say everything—your love, your anger, your disappointment. Don’t hold back. Then (and this part is crucial), destroy it. Burn it, shred it, release it.

This symbolic act helps your brain mark closure, even if you never got it from them.

2. Create a “Let Go” ritual

Every time you find yourself spiraling into memory or fantasy, pause. Light a candle, take three deep breaths, and whisper aloud:

“I choose to let go—not of love, but of illusion.”

This micro-practice builds the habit of conscious detachment.

3. Feel it to free it

Psychologist Dr. Susan David puts it beautifully: “It’s really important to also recognize that emotions are data. They contain signposts are the things that we care about, but they’re not directives.” 

Let yourself feel—without feeding the story.

Try this:

• Label the emotion: “This is sadness.” 
• Notice where it lives in your body. 
• Breathe into it for 90 seconds without judgment. 

Feelings are waves. Let them pass, and they will.

4. Shift the spotlight

When we’re heartbroken, we zoom in on the other person. Flip that lens.

Ask:

• What do I want now—for myself? 
• What parts of me did I neglect while focusing on them? 
• What small joy can I return to today? 

This isn’t about distraction. It’s about reclaiming your energy.

A Mindfulness take: Who are you without the story?

There’s a Zen teaching I return to often:

“Let go or be dragged.”

Harsh? Maybe. True? Definitely.

But letting go doesn’t mean abandoning love—it means letting go of the illusion that love can only look one way, or come from one person.

Mindfulness invites us to observe without judgment. When we apply that to heartbreak, we begin to see our suffering not as a fixed identity, but as a passing cloud.

Here’s a practice that helped me:

The grounding sit (5 Minutes)

1. Sit comfortably. Close your eyes. 
2. Focus on your breath—just notice it. 
3. When thoughts of your ex arise, whisper mentally: “Thinking.” 
4. Return to the breath. 
5. When emotion rises, name it. “Sadness.” Then return. 

This isn’t about stopping the pain—it’s about not becoming it.

Through mindfulness, you discover something radical: you are more than your heartbreak. You are the one watching it unfold.

What eventually helped me heal

I want to end with something personal.

Months after my breakup, I found myself sitting by the ocean at dusk. It had been a rough day—memories had blindsided me. But as I watched the waves roll in, something in me softened.

The waves didn’t resist their coming and going. They rose. They crashed. They receded.

And I realized: I could be like the ocean.

I didn’t need to fight the sadness. I just had to stop clinging to the shore.

So I whispered aloud—to no one but the wind:

“Thank you. I’m ready to release.”

It didn’t fix everything. But it was a turning point.

Healing is rarely a thunderclap. It’s a hundred quiet moments where you choose yourself again.

Final thoughts

If you’re trying to get over someone, know this: it’s okay to feel lost, angry, heartbroken. It means you cared deeply. That’s not weakness—it’s beautiful.

But you don’t have to stay stuck.

By asking honest questions, practicing non-attachment, and showing up to your own healing, you begin to release not just the person—but the grip they had on your story.

In time, you’ll find something unexpected: you were never broken. Just unfolding.

And maybe, just maybe, this ending is the start of your next beginning.

You’ve got this.