By Jennifer Vanasco

A year ago, my six-month relationship with a vibrantly gentle woman was coming to an end.

We ended it officially because I was moving back to New York; she was happy in Chicago.

But really, we knew the whole time it wouldn’t last. We were too different; our lives had different courses. Yet our time together was beautiful, one of those perfect, short-term romances. It was, perhaps, my most healthy (and fun) relationship to date.

She had a strong effect on me, then and now. She was surreptitiously smart; her wisdom snuck up on me. She’d give me advice that didn’t seem like advice at all, but passionate listening.

Often I’d find myself, a day or two—or a week—later, smacking myself on the head and thinking, “Oh, that’s what she meant! She was so right. I should have listened.”

I felt stronger because of her.

Just before I moved to New York last August, she gave me a necklace, a clay charm etched with the Chinese character for “strength,” as a companion to the Chinese character for “woman” that is etched on my shoulder.

For a year, I wore it all the time. It was a reminder to tap inner resources; that I had the strength to do what was necessary to be the hero of my own life.

More, it was a talisman from a time when I was decisive and certain. I was completely sure about leaving Chicago after 12 years to move to New York.

I had a warm circle of friends and an engaging life in the Midwest, but I missed my family and knew that I needed a New York-style career boost.

I wasn’t wrong about moving. My career has rocketed forward; I feel more at home here than I have ever felt anywhere.

Yet this summer has been a hard one. The glamour of the new has worn off. I am left with work, deadlines, and an aching loneliness. I have yet to find a community here.

For a month, I cried every night.

Then, one morning, I went to put the strength necklace on. It was a day I really needed it.

I found it cracked in half.

I sat hard on my bed, stunned. It was a year, almost to the day, after the girl had given it to me. What did it mean?

With the mood I was in, one might expect that I took it as a very bad sign, crawled back into bed, and wept under the covers.

But strangely, that’s not what happened at all.

I sat holding the pieces for a while, fitting them together, pulling them apart. I felt their delicate weight resting against my palm.

Maybe, I thought, it’s not a sign that I have no strength.

Maybe it’s a sign that I have all the strength I need, and that I no longer need a necklace to tell me so.

The past year has meant a lot of change for me. The death of my grandmother, who helped raise me; three job changes; moving twice; the evacuation of my mother from my childhood home; a rearrangement of my place in my family.

I’ve met new people beyond counting, including a newly beloved cousin. I found a literary agent and started work on a memoir. I founded a successful writers’ networking group. I went to plays and concerts and strange performance art shows and museums.

Yet the biggest change has not been external, but internal.

I’ve stopped muscling my way forward. That is, I’ve stopped trying so hard. I’m no longer trying to manage how people feel about me, or about how I feel about them.

I’m relaxing more, letting things flower in their own time, instead of attempting to sculpt my world into the shape I think it should take.

I thought of repairing my necklace with super glue, but I don’t think I will.

Instead, I will keep both halves of my broken strength in a small box as a reminder that sometimes the best thing you can do is let yourself be fragile and open and vulnerable.

Sometimes, the best thing is to let yourself see where the world is taking you instead of always trying to drive the world.

This is one of the key things that my girlfriend from a year ago taught to me.

And doing it takes a particular kind of strength—the strength that helps us let go, and simply live and trust. Sometimes we call it love.

Jennifer Vanasco is an award-winning, syndicated columnist in New York. Email her at jennifer.vanasco@gmail.com; read her column archive and occasional blog at jennifervanasco.com.