There is a sacred sorrow in teaching the Craft that is hard to explain to those outside its initiatory gates. It is not the loud pain of betrayal nor the dramatic flounce of renunciation, but the deep and aching silence that follows when someone quietly leaves. Someone you anointed with oil, entrusted with the Mysteries, and guided through the darkness by candlelight. They do not burn the temple as they go. They simply vanish, leaving a hollow space where once there was breath, laughter, and potential.

In this tradition, we do not chase. We do not plead. The path is walked by will, not demand and when that will turns away, we must let it go. But do not confuse dignity for detachment. We mourn deeply. As Maxine Sanders once wrote, “There is no glamour in abandonment,” and I have felt the truth of that in my bones. It is not only the absence of a student that lingers, but the echo of what might have been, the rites not yet spoken, the blessings not yet kindled, the Work left half done.

This heartbreak is not born of ego. It is born of devotion. To be a Priest or Priestess of the Craft is not merely to teach it is to offer up your time, your spirit, your scars, in service to transformation. You walk beside someone through storms, through fire, and you witness them emerge sometimes stronger, sometimes still unsure. And when they choose to leave, you must watch the embers fade, knowing the Gods still hold them, but that your hands no longer will. You say nothing. You turn back to the altar. And you begin again.

Still, in the quiet hours, I leave a lantern at the edge of the Circle. Should they find themselves again at the Crossroads weary, changed, or simply ready. I hope they remember the way. Because love, like the oath, is not undone by distance. It transforms. It binds without clutching. And even when the Circle is broken by absence, the center holds.