What We Carry
For nearly a decade, my locs were more than just hair. They were a commitment, a spiritual journey, and a visible timeline of growth and patience. I started them in 2016 with intention, drawn by both their aesthetic appeal and the deeper significance of allowing my hair to grow naturally, without scissors or manipulation. I wanted to see what would emerge if I let go of control and allowed time to do its work.
The journey was everything seasoned loc wearers had told me it would be. My locs moved through stages like chapters in a long book: the baby locs, with their fuzzy uncertainty; the awkward teenage phase, when they seemed to have a mind of their own; and finally, the mature locs that hung with weight and history. Each stage required patience. Each stage taught me something about commitment.
But somewhere along the way, the thing that was supposed to represent freedom began to feel like a constraint. It started subtly. What once felt like a crown began to feel like a burden. The locs that had framed my face with character now seemed to obscure it.
I found myself looking in the mirror and not recognizing the person staring back, or worse, recognizing someone who felt trapped beneath the growth. My locs had physical weight, especially after all those years, but what I didn’t anticipate was the psychological weight. Each loc carried memories, yes, but also versions of myself I had outgrown.
They held on to who I was in 2016, 2018, and 2020, all the iterations of me that no longer matched who I was becoming. I began to feel like I was carrying around a past self I needed to release. The decision to cut my locs wasn’t impulsive, but when it finally came, it felt inevitable. I realized I was holding on only because I had invested so much time. That’s when I knew I was ready.
There’s something ritualistic about cutting locs. It isn’t like getting a regular haircut. It’s a severance, a before-and-after moment that divides your life into distinct chapters. When the scissors went through each loc, I felt the release, and almost immediately, I felt lighter.
I can’t fully explain what happened after I cut them, but “rebirth” is the only word that comes close. The physical sensation was immediate; my head felt weightless, and I could move and think differently. But it went deeper than the physical. Something shifted, and my confidence returned in ways I hadn’t anticipated.
I felt clearer, more present, more myself than I had in years. It was as if cutting the locs had cut away accumulated mental fog, old patterns of thinking, and outdated versions of who I thought I should be. In some spiritual traditions, hair is associated with energy and memory. Cutting it can be understood as a way of releasing what’s stagnant, what’s holding you to a version of yourself you’ve already moved past.
You don’t have to be spiritual to feel the truth in that. The effect is real either way. The journey taught me patience, commitment, and the beauty of allowing things to unfold naturally. The decision to cut my locs taught me something equally valuable. We’re allowed to change.
We’re allowed to release what once served us when it no longer does. We’re allowed to choose ourselves again and again, even when that means letting go of something we invested years into building. My locs were beautiful. They were meaningful. And now they’re gone. All of these things can be true at once.
I don’t regret the decade I spent with them, but I also don’t regret the moment I decided to let them go. Sometimes the most spiritual thing we can do is release what’s holding us back, even if, especially if, it’s something we once held sacred.
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