If I had all the time in the world, there is one skill I would devote myself to–and not cooking or speaking a new language–but detachment. Not the cold, emotionless kind people misunderstand, but the harder, softer, braver version. The kind where you care deeply for people, dreams, and moments… without losing yourself in the process.
Because honestly? Losing ourselves is something we do too easily.
We grow up believing that being a good friend means being available 24/7, that being a good partner means bending till we break, and that being a good student means letting our GPA dictate our worth. We think attachment = loyalty; however, sometimes, attachment is just a beautiful word for self-abandonment.
Detachment, on the other hand, is choosing yourself while still choosing others; just not at the cost of your peace.
If I had endless time to master this skill, I’d start by learning how to love people without absorbing every shift in their moods. I’d learn to listen without carrying their problems on my back like emotional luggage. I’d realize that someone’s silence doesn’t automatically mean I did something wrong, and someone’s approval shouldn’t function like oxygen. I’d also learn how to care for my dreams without letting them consume me. We’ve all been there: tying our self-worth to one internship, one exam, one text, one opportunity. Detachment would teach me that my dreams grow healthier when I’m not strangling them with expectation.
Most importantly, I’d learn how to stay rooted in myself even while I’m deeply invested in someone or something else. That balance, showing up fully without disappearing, is what makes detachment feel like a superpower. Imagine how freeing it would be to love without fear. To give without overthinking. To let go without guilt. To stay soft without being swept away by every emotional tide around you.
Detachment doesn’t mean caring less; it means caring with boundaries. It means recognising that my energy is sacred. It means not fighting for relationships in which I’m the only one spending energy and effort. It means allowing things to end without turning them into a personal failure. It means understanding that people can be important without being permanent.
If I had all the time in the world, I’d practise detachment the way someone practises a musical instrument: patiently, imperfectly, and consistently. Some days I’d nail it. Other days, I’d slip back into old patterns and catch myself spiralling. But even that would be okay. Because detachment isn’t about perfection; it’s about awareness.
In mastering it, I think I’d become a version of myself that feels lighter, healthier, and more grounded. Someone who can love deeply without drowning. Someone who can let go gracefully. Someone who knows when to stay, when to leave, and most importantly, when to return to herself.
And maybe that’s the real goal.
Not to stop caring, but to care in a way that allows me to stay whole.