You're the editor of lives โ yours and, when invited, everyone else's. Sunk costs don't fool you, obligation doesn't sentimentalize you, and 'we've always done it this way' has never once survived your review. Release, for you, is a skill practiced to fluency.
The cost is premature endings. The blade gets efficient enough to cut things that were still growing, and people can experience your clarity as coldness when the thing you released was one they were still holding.
The last quarter moon is half-dark and unbothered โ shedding light on schedule, making room. The practice is auditing the audit: asking what this is becoming before ruling on what it failed to be. Some crooked things are mid-growth. Even you were, once.