When the Uber Leaves and You Want to Cry

A story about silent goodbyes, family ties, and the sacred weight of moments

The Moment I Didn’t Expect to Feel So Much

I’ve never been one for dramatic displays. I’m the type who says goodbye with a hug, a nod, maybe a “text me when you land,” and moves along. Not because I don’t feel—because I do. Deeply. But emotions? They tend to stay quietly folded inside me like love letters I’m still working up the courage to send.

But that day, as I watched my nephew’s Uber pull away (we’re only five years apart), something inside me tugged—hard.

I blinked longer than I should’ve. (And blinking for too long? Yeah—that’s always a gateway drug to tears.) It was subtle, but unmistakable—that ache that signals a chapter closing. The car disappeared around the corner, and with it, the last little traces of laughter, shared meals, late-night convos, and a house that had been fuller just a moment before.

Suddenly, I felt it.

That whisper of sorrow dressed like nostalgia.

That “this moment won’t come back exactly like this again” kind of grief.

And in that moment, the words of A.A. Milne floated gently into my soul like a hand reaching out:

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”

I stood there—blessed and heartbroken. Both.

Family, Airports, and What We Don’t Say Out Loud

Later, when I hugged my sister at the airport, I felt the emotion rising again. That familiar lump building in my throat. We were both holding it together with practiced grace. We didn’t want to cry—not in the middle of the terminal, not when there were already enough goodbyes in the air.

I didn’t want to be the one to trigger tears.

So I gave her a longer hug. Quiet. Firm.

The kind that says what words don’t know how to.

And as we pulled apart, I felt something ancient in our bond. A rhythm. A silent agreement. We love deeply. We just… don’t always show it with tears.

Maybe it’s our way of protecting each other.

Maybe it’s pride. Or embarrassment.

Or maybe, love in our family has always been more sensed than spoken.

“Tears are words the heart can’t say,” someone once wrote.

And in that moment, my heart was writing full pages.

Scripture in the Silence

As I walked away, the echo of Ecclesiastes followed me like a soft whisper:

“There is a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.” —Ecclesiastes 3:4

It didn’t shame me—it freed me.

Yes, this was a goodbye.

But it was also a celebration: of presence, of shared moments, of a bond strong enough to break me open, even if just a little.

It reminded me that even Jesus wept (John 11:35)—not because He lacked faith, but because He loved deeply. And love, in its truest form, doesn’t always wait for tidy timing.

The Bigger Story at Play

As I replayed the goodbyes, I thought about how our lives are essentially stories being told—not in ink, but in hugs, departures, Sunday dinners, and airport farewells.

And if God is the Author—and I believe He is—then maybe these seemingly small moments are actually pivotal plot points in a much grander narrative.

“So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God.” —1 Corinthians 10:31

Even farewells can be sacred.

Even silence can glorify.

Soul Insights

As I sat with all of this, I realized: God was writing something in me through that simple, aching moment. Here’s what rose to the surface:

1. Goodbyes aren’t throwaway lines—they’re sacred punctuation.

We tend to rush past goodbyes as if they’re just logistical. But they’re actually emotional bookmarks—moments that tell us: Something meaningful just happened. And it’s ending now. Whether it’s the final squeeze of a hug or the tail lights disappearing around a corner, goodbyes are God’s way of reminding us to pause and honor what was. They may not be forever, but they are final in their own way. That’s holy ground.

2. Not all love is loud.

Love doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes, it hides in small acts—refilling someone’s cup, folding their blanket, checking their flight status without saying a word. Some families speak love through sarcasm, some through food, some through presence. In my family, it’s often restraint that reveals care: “I didn’t cry because I didn’t want to make you cry.” It doesn’t mean the love is missing. It means the love is woven into our wiring.

3. Suppressing tears doesn’t mean we’re strong. It just means we’re human.

There’s nothing wrong with holding back emotion, especially when we’re trying to be strong for others. But let’s not confuse suppression with strength. The soul speaks in many languages, and tears are one of them. Fighting them doesn’t always mean victory—sometimes, it just means timing. And that’s okay too. Grace meets us in both the tears we release and the ones we hold.

4. The ache of leaving is proof of love’s presence.

The reason the Uber moment wrecked me was because the days before it were filled with joy. We ache because we were present. We hurt because we loved fully while it lasted. And even when we’re apart, that ache turns into a thread connecting hearts across miles and time zones. God gave us that ache so we’d remember what it means to be connected—to feel the cost of love, not just its comfort.

5. God tells stories through people—and you’re one of them.

Every moment we live, every goodbye we say, every time we hold back tears or let them fall—these are brushstrokes in a larger painting. We don’t always see the full picture, but the Author does. Your life is a testimony in progress. You don’t have to have it all figured out to be meaningful. Just living with intention, reflecting, loving, and trusting—that is a story worth telling. One that reflects the glory of the One who’s writing it.

“Love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” —1 Peter 4:8

Final Thoughts: A Page Worth Bookmarking

We spend so much of life managing emotions, keeping them tidy, wrapping them in to-do lists and travel plans. But every now and then, the soul pushes through.

It says, “Hey, this moment mattered. Don’t rush past it.”

And maybe that’s the deeper truth.

Maybe the most spiritual thing I did that day wasn’t praying or quoting scripture.

Maybe it was feeling something real and letting it change me—if only just a little.

And when I think about it now, I don’t regret the tears I fought.

I’m just grateful the moment was rich enough to stir them in the first place.

Because in the grand story God is telling,

this little chapter?

It mattered.

A gentle invitation for you:

Have you had a moment like that—a goodbye that stirred something unexpected in you?

Write it down. Let it rise.

Let God speak through the ache.

He may be telling a story in you, too.

Soul Path Insights