Collectively, we have this pesky little stigma that crying is a shameful activity to be hidden behind closed doors-like people who play WoW or who are, you know, unattractive. (Kidding…) Babies, newly-coronated beauty queens, and probably Beyoncé can get away with crying in public. As for the rest of us? Not so much.

But there are other magical properties to crying, too. A story is multiplied in intensity by a factor of 7.90324 if the narrator finishes it off with “It hurt so bad I was bawling.” And often, if they leave that information out, the first reaction from the audience is “Yeah, but did you cry?” Then there’s the utter lack of crying being bragged on: “I didn’t even cry.” And, let’s be real, if you cry in a movie you might as well just bring a paper bag to wear over your head on the way out. Your more honest friends will threaten to call the waaambulance when you complain too much. We feebly try to hide it from people and turn up late with puffy eyes in the dead of winter when literally nothing is pollenating whatsoever. Everyone knows it’s not allergies, but they nod sympathetically all the same. “Oh yeah, ragweed gets me, too.”

But we are also (usually) taught that sometimes crying is ok. I’m here to say that some other times, it’s just plain necessary.

I mean, certain things should make you feel something. There will be moments that you just cannot completely handle without losing your composure.

Like when you’re backing out of a parking spot and a person who has literally believed in you 100% from the moment they met you and has gone to bat for you more times than either of you can count finally turns her back and slowly walks away, trying to keep it together…

Or when you go outside to look up at a simple object, a basketball hoop that looks inane and obsolete but that you know has played a major role in your life, that was there through everything since the third grade, and then haltingly step back to go inside and pack your things…

Even when you tell someone who you’ve been friends with since you were both just ten years old, someone who has known you longer and stuck with you through more than so many other people that you’ll see them eventually, maybe…

And when you stand in the living room of your adopted family, people who have taken you in in every sense and allowed you to hang out, eat all of their food, crash for indefinite periods of time, and play with their dog, and say that it’s time for you to go, one final time…

…I feel like you’d better lose your composure. If you don’t, part of me thinks you did something wrong. Because when you leave people, things, and places that really mean something to you for what feels like forever, there’s not a whole lot more you can do than just cry.

What I’m trying to say is that leaving hurts, and will hurt for awhile. Enough to cry. Even if it’s like a coward in your car with the music blaring to drown out your sobs, even if it doesn’t fix jack squat, and even if you look nothing like a baby beauty queen who’s talent portion consists of covering Beyoncé songs…

Cry like one anyways. You probably need to.