The Hidden Harm of “Let Them”
I don’t think Adam Sandler is funny.
Not in a movie, not in a sketch, and especially not when he breaks into the voice that is part toddler, part dental patient. I never laugh. Not ever.
But then I see how much money his films make and think, He must be funny. I must be the one without a sense of humor.
But critics agree with me. They describe his films as “emotional junk food,” “a fever dream with a punchline,” or “what happens when a studio forgets to say no," I feel vindicated. I’m not wrong. Adam Sandler is not funny.
You may have had a similar experience with other emotions, like fear. Maybe you love roller coasters—the speed, the drop, the thrill of losing control—while the person you were with turned pale just watching the cars climb, silently calculating the odds of flying off the track and into a funnel cake stand. Or take sadness: one person watches a dog die in a movie and sobs. Another shrugs and says, “It’s just a dog.”
Humor. Fear. Sadness. Put them all on the table, and it becomes clear: we don’t feel emotions the same way or to the same degree. They’re personal, not universal. They’re constructed—built moment to moment by your brain using the raw material of your life. Your memories, your culture, your values. Your wiring.
But that’s not how we talk about emotions. We act like they’re shared, innate, automatic. We talk about “emotional intelligence” as if we can know what someone else is feeling just by reading the room. We can’t. Not really. Not entirely. And more importantly, we rarely know the cause of our own emotions.
Yet shorthand explanations get tossed around like universal truths. Especially by people with no background in neuroscience, psychology, or behavioral science. But if the advice sounds right, the next thing you know it’s being spread like gospel on Good Morning America, The View, or The Tonight Show.
That’s what’s happening now with Mel Robbins. Normally, I don’t care. If a self-help guru offers harmless advice that motivates people to drink more water, take more walks, or stop texting their ex—great. Good for them and the people who find strength in it. But this one is different. This one is dangerous. And Robbins and her readers don’t know it.
What the “Let Them” Theory Gets Wrong
Mel Robbins’ Let Them Theory is simple: if someone wants to walk away, let them. If they don’t value you, let them. If they don’t show up, don’t chase them. It feels clean. Empowering. Like you’ve just Marie Kondo’d your emotional life.
And Robbins isn’t malicious. She’s doing what she always does, turning emotional frustration into a repeatable rule. Something that sounds like growth, even if it doesn’t function like it.
The problem is: her theory assumes that the emotional pain we feel comes from other people’s behavior. It doesn’t. It comes from what our brain predicts those actions mean, based on our own history. If someone pulls away and you feel abandoned, that feeling wasn’t caused by them. It was assembled by your brain, using pieces of past experiences, insecurities, and learned associations. Someone else might interpret the exact same action as freedom, relief, or nothing at all.
This is the fundamental error: Robbins frames “letting them” go as a way to take your power back. But if emotions are constructed, not caused, then walking away doesn’t end the story. It cements it.
Every time you choose silence over clarity or distance over discomfort, your brain takes notes: connection is risky, vulnerability hurts, disengagement is wise. You don’t just learn to protect yourself from them. You train yourself to pull back from everyone.
That’s how emotional habits form. Not through explosions, but through quiet repetition. Through small moments where you choose to disconnect rather than understand, until that becomes your baseline. Robbins tells you to retreat as an act of strength. Neuroscience tells us it’s an act of reinforcement. And over time, it builds not boundaries, but isolation.
So What Should We Do Instead?
It’s not groveling. And it’s not hanging on to people who drain you. No one’s saying you should beg someone to stay just so your nervous system doesn’t collapse.
The alternative is awareness. Not “emotional intelligence” in the buzzwordy, TED Talk sense. I mean actual emotional awareness—the kind that takes work. The kind that doesn’t pretend to know what someone else is feeling, and doesn’t automatically trust your own first draft either.
It starts with pausing and asking: What am I feeling right now? Where did I learn this response? Is this reaction coming from the present or from something old pretending to be new? Maybe you’re furious someone canceled plans. But it’s not really anger, it’s disappointment. And the disappointment isn’t about tonight—it’s about years of being let down. Maybe you’re anxious after a tense meeting. But it’s not about what was said, it’s about that time in school when you spoke up and got laughed at. Or that boss who quietly reassigned your projects the week before you were laid off—teaching your brain that silence and dread always come before the fall.
Our brains don’t separate past from present. They layer them. And what feels like an emotional truth is often just an emotional echo. That’s why walking away (or letting them) doesn’t solve the problem. It pauses the discomfort, but leaves the mechanism intact. And when that mechanism is fear, resentment, or rejection, it doesn’t stay paused for long.
This Isn’t Just Personal. It’s Professional.
If you’re a manager, and someone on your team rubs you the wrong way, your brain might say, They’re difficult. Just let them be. But maybe what you’re really reacting to is a communication style that reminds you of someone who undermined you in a previous job. And instead of clarifying expectations, you disengage.
If you’re a partner—at work or at home—and someone pulls away, your brain might say, Let them. But your body registers something else entirely. It doesn’t feel like calm. It feels like punishment. And that unresolved discomfort doesn’t disappear. It waits.
That’s how patterns form. That’s how connection erodes. Not through big betrayals, but through tiny exits. This is why awareness matters. In relationships. In leadership. In life. Letting go can be wise. But understanding what you’re letting go of is wiser.
The Real Work of Emotional Growth
So yes, maybe we should keep the phrase. Let them. Let them walk away. Let them show you who they are. Let them make choices you wouldn’t.
But don’t confuse that with emotional clarity. And don’t pretend it leaves you untouched. Because your brain is always learning. Always predicting. Always building. If you keep retreating from discomfort, your brain will stop preparing you for connection. It will start preparing you for isolation.
And the next time someone pulls away, you won’t even flinch. Not because it doesn’t hurt. But because you’ve trained yourself not to feel it. That’s not growth. That’s damage disguised as discipline.
So let them, yes. But don’t let yourself off the hook. Not from asking what it meant. Not from feeling what it brought up. Not from learning what it revealed. Because emotions aren’t proof of who they are. They’re reflections of who you are and what you’ve lived through. They’re not universal. They’re not shared. They’re yours. Entirely.
And once you understand that, walking away isn’t the win.
Walking through is.
(Oh—and Adam Sandler still isn’t funny. But I guess now I have to figure out why I feel that way.)