How To Deal With People Coming and Leaving You From Time to Time?

We don’t talk enough about how normal it is for people to flow in and out of our lives—even as adults who “know better.” Whether it’s friends, colleagues, mentors, romantic partners, or even clients, this coming-and-going rhythm is baked into how human relationships evolve. Still, every exit can feel like a fresh sting.

What makes it harder is that we live in a world that glorifies consistency—long-term friendships, decade-old networks, “ride or die” loyalty. So when people leave (and they will), we sometimes interpret that as a failure: “Was I too much? Not enough? Did I do something wrong?”

But from what I’ve observed—and what psychology and neuroscience back up—this movement is less about personal inadequacy and more about human wiring clashing with an impermanent world.

So let’s break that down, because when you really understand what’s happening underneath the surface, the leaving stops feeling so personal.

What’s Actually Going On When People Leave

Our brains are wired to get attached

Let’s start with the basics. The human brain loves patterns. And relationships? They’re among the strongest patterns we latch onto.

Attachment theory has been around for decades, but what’s especially interesting to me (and probably to you too) is how neuroplasticity intersects with emotional bonding. Every time we form a connection—whether it’s with a new coworker or someone we just started dating—our brains begin rewiring to accommodate them. We create routines, shared language, behavioral adjustments. We’re literally changing our neural architecture to make room for someone.

So when they leave, there’s a void. Not just emotionally, but neurologically. It’s not “just in our heads”—it is our heads.

Example: Ever felt that weird moment when you instinctively go to text someone who’s no longer in your life? That’s your brain still operating on an old social pathway that hasn’t been pruned yet.

Modern life is built for transience

We also need to talk about context. Our grandparents often had the same friends, neighbors, or coworkers for life. We don’t. We’re constantly changing cities, careers, projects—and so are the people we meet.

I’ve worked with founders who build entire teams that dissolve in two years. Or creative professionals who form deep bonds on film sets or product launches, only to never see that person again after the wrap party. And yet, those connections mattered.

The speed of our lives creates intense but temporary intimacy. It’s what anthropologists sometimes call “liminal bonding”—deep connections formed in transition spaces. Summer camps. War zones. Startups. Therapy. These environments are intense, but not built for permanence.

So yeah, people leave. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.

Empathy means you’ll feel the echo

Here’s a subtle detail that gets overlooked: mirror neurons. These little guys fire in your brain when you observe someone else’s emotions or actions. They’re why we flinch when someone stubs their toe or cry at a movie.

But they also play a big role in how much we absorb from others. When we interact with someone frequently, we start syncing with their tone, energy, even body language. So when they’re gone, our mirror systems don’t know what to do with the absence.

Example: I once had a business partner I saw nearly every day for two years. After we split ways, I noticed that I kept using his idioms in meetings for months. It was like an emotional ghost haunting my vocabulary. That’s the echo. It’s a thing.

Even the most emotionally intelligent people feel it

There’s this myth that emotional maturity means you don’t get affected when people leave. Total BS.

What I’ve seen—and this is true for therapists, coaches, team leads, you name it—is that the more aware you are, the deeper your processing often is. You don’t just feel the loss; you dissect it, compare it, contextualize it.

And that’s exhausting. Especially when there’s no closure. Or worse, when the exit is subtle—like someone just slowly texting less until they vanish into polite nothingness.

Sometimes, emotional intelligence makes you more susceptible to the sting because you notice the shift earlier, you name it faster, and you remember it longer.

Familiar pain still hurts

Here’s what I’ll leave this section with: just because something is expected doesn’t mean it’s easy.

We expect team members to quit. We expect old friends to drift. We even expect that most romantic partners won’t last forever.

But when it happens, it still hits. Not because we’re weak. But because we’re wired to care.

So if you’ve ever found yourself wondering why this person’s departure hit you harder than you thought it would—or why you keep replaying that “final” conversation weeks later—you’re not crazy. You’re just a human being in a brain that was designed for connection, trying to adapt to a world that doesn’t always make space for keeping people around.

And that’s worth understanding more deeply.

What You Can Actually Do to Handle It Better

Start with the body before the mind

I know we love mindset work—and yes, I’m all for reframing thoughts and challenging internal narratives. But in my experience (and a lot of neuroscience backs this up), we can’t think our way through emotional pain until we’ve felt it first.

So when someone leaves and you’re in that foggy, distracted state—start with your body. Before you even open your journal or try to find meaning in the experience, give your nervous system a place to land.

Breathwork helps here. Not the overengineered kind—just 4 seconds in, 6 seconds out, repeat until your jaw unlocks. Walking helps. Moving your limbs, feeling your feet on the ground. Even something as simple as humming can stimulate the vagus nerve and ease that internal chaos.

The idea isn’t to “get over it.” It’s to give your body a signal that it’s safe again. Because as far as your nervous system’s concerned, someone leaving can feel like a threat.

Externalize the emotions without analyzing them

This one took me years to learn. You don’t need to process a departure through a microscope the minute it happens. In fact, overanalyzing too soon can lock you into old patterns.

What helps me is externalizing without pressure. That might look like voice notes I never listen to again. Or scribbling thoughts on a paper that I later burn (seriously—fire is a fantastic ritual). Or making music or sketches that feel like nonsense but hold a certain emotional frequency.

It’s not about coherence. It’s about release. You have to let the storm pass before you start mapping the damage.

Example: A founder friend of mine used to write long “unsent emails” to anyone who left their startup. Not to actually send—but to honor the weight of that relationship. Eventually, they turned it into an art project. That’s processing on a whole other level.

Change how you measure the value of a relationship

One of the most painful traps we fall into is thinking that longevity = value. If someone left after only a few months, we tend to downplay the meaning of that connection.

But here’s the thing: intensity matters as much as duration. That three-month collaboration where you produced your best work? That two-week trip where someone really saw you? That client who challenged you in all the right ways before suddenly vanishing? Those count.

Try shifting your internal metric from “how long did they stay?” to “how much did we impact each other while we were connected?”

It opens up space for gratitude, even when things end unexpectedly.

Ritualize departures

We’ve got rituals for weddings, birthdays, even quitting jobs—but we rarely create them for endings that don’t have a script.

I started experimenting with this a couple of years ago. When someone leaves my team, I try to write a little personal reflection—what I learned from them, what changed in me while they were around. I don’t always share it with them. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I burn it. But the act of marking the end helps me digest it.

And honestly, it brings a bit of peace. It tells my mind and body: “This chapter is closed. You don’t have to keep flipping back.”

You can make up your own rituals. Light a candle. Archive a message thread. Take yourself out for a solo meal and toast what the relationship gave you. You’re not being dramatic. You’re just giving form to something that’s emotionally real.

Use exits as mirrors

Okay, now we get to the reflective part—but only after you’ve moved some of that raw energy.

People leaving often reflect something back to us. Not always something bad—but always something revealing. Maybe they mirrored a part of you you’d neglected. Maybe they held you to a standard you weren’t ready for. Maybe they confirmed a boundary you’d been avoiding.

The point isn’t to blame or dissect them. The point is to ask, “What part of me did they activate?”

This is where you grow. If you’re willing to see departures not as abandonment but as revelation, you’ll start seeing every goodbye as a strange kind of mentorship.

If You Don’t Deal With It, Here’s What Can Happen

You start numbing, even when you don’t mean to

Let me guess—you’ve had a phase where someone left, and your reaction was something like, “Whatever. People come and go. I’m used to it.”

And yeah, sometimes that is genuine perspective. But a lot of the time, it’s emotional numbing in disguise. You’re not unfazed—you’re just shut down.

When I see clients or colleagues say they “don’t get attached anymore,” what I often hear is: I don’t let myself feel it because it hurts too much when it ends.

That kind of unchecked detachment creeps into everything. You stop celebrating new connections. You get cynical. You resist joy because joy reminds you of loss.

And eventually, it can start to feel like nothing really matters. That’s not toughness. That’s emotional burnout.

You develop hyper-independence

This one’s sneaky. When people keep leaving, we start to believe it’s safer not to need anyone.

You become the “I got it” person. You over-function. You anticipate people flaking, so you stop relying on them. You don’t ask for help, not because you’re confident—but because you’re terrified of being let down again.

Hyper-independence is a trauma response dressed up as competence. And it will cost you meaningful relationships if you’re not careful.

Example: A former client of mine, a wildly successful CEO, once told me they didn’t delegate “because people leave.” It wasn’t about skill gaps—it was a fear of investing in someone who might walk away.

That fear eventually created a culture of distance inside their company. People stayed—but no one felt connected.

The grief loops never end

When we don’t fully metabolize departures, we end up looping. That can look like:

• Replaying conversations
  
• Imagining different outcomes
  
• Creating “closure fantasies” that never quite satisfy
  

And the worst part? These loops drain your focus. You can’t be fully present with new people when you’re still echoing with old exits.

Your inner world becomes a haunted house—every new connection has to dodge ghosts you haven’t laid to rest.

You start sabotaging closeness

This is the painful irony. The more unprocessed exits you carry, the more likely you are to push people away before they even have a chance to leave.

You might become overly critical. Or emotionally avoidant. Or you test them constantly: “Will you leave too?”

It’s all protective. I get it. But in trying to avoid the pain of someone leaving, you can end up ensuring they do.

And here’s the kicker: when they go, you’ll say, “See? This always happens.” Not realizing it’s partially self-fulfilling.

That’s why dealing with exits isn’t just emotional hygiene—it’s a relational skill. If you don’t learn to close loops cleanly, they’ll keep opening themselves back up.

You forget how much you matter

People leaving can chip away at your sense of worth, especially if it happens often or suddenly.

You might start to wonder: “What’s wrong with me?” or “Why doesn’t anyone stay?” And without realizing it, you start shrinking—toning yourself down, softening your edges, people-pleasing just to be more “stay-worthy.”

But the truth is, some people are just passing through. And others aren’t equipped to meet you where you are. That doesn’t make you unlovable.

It makes you someone worth protecting—especially from internal stories that say otherwise.

Final Thoughts

If you’ve read this far, I’m guessing this topic hits close to home. Maybe you’ve been the one left. Maybe you’ve left others and didn’t quite know how to deal with the echo.

Whatever your story is, just remember: having people come and go doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you’re alive and connected.

Yes, it hurts. But it’s also a sign that you opened your heart. That you let someone in. That you cared enough to notice their absence.

And that? That’s not weakness. That’s the whole point.