You think you’ll be ready. You rehearse it in your head – the farewell, the toast, the slow walk to the edge of the platform before you drop the mic and leave the spotlight in a blaze of poetic symmetry. That’s the fantasy version.
The real version? The real version shows up early. It doesn’t wait until you’ve prepared the perfect line or figured out the lesson you were supposed to learn. No, it kicks in the door, drops its suitcase, and says, “You’ve got five minutes to be profound.”
And you — standing there with your heart in one hand and your composure in the other – are expected to say goodbye.
But how do you say goodbye to something that changed you?
How do you reduce a chapter of your life to a closing sentence?
Because here’s the dirty little secret no one tells you about goodbyes: they aren’t endings.
They’re echoes.
Every “goodbye” is a “hello” in disguise – to the part of you that grew while you weren’t looking.
To the person you became because you sat in that chair, fought through that project, stood next to that friend, laughed at that mistake, and held your ground when it would’ve been easier to run.
When you’re asked to say goodbye, don’t list the facts.
Don’t recap the timeline.
Don’t thank the academy.
Tell the truth.
Tell them who you were when you got here and who you are now.
Because life isn’t an episode. It’s a run-on sentence with no punctuation until someone else decides the page is full.
We don’t get the luxury of final drafts.
We get first takes.
We get messy moments.
We get the pause before the music swells – the space between the lines where everything real lives.
So when they ask you to say goodbye – Don’t.
Say thank you.
Say I love you.
Say remember this.
And if your voice cracks or your timing’s off, let it.
Because here’s the truth they’ll remember long after you leave:
You showed up.
You mattered.
You made your mark.
And that – that’s how you say goodbye without ever really leaving.