Hey there. If you're reading this, I imagine your heart is hurting right now. Maybe you're sitting alone, scrolling through your phone at 3 AM, trying to make sense of how someone who meant everything to you could suddenly feel like a stranger. I want you to know that I see you, and this pain you're carrying? It's real, it's valid, and you don't have to figure it out alone.
I know words might feel empty right now. When trust breaks, it's like the ground beneath your feet disappears. One day you're sharing coffee and dreams with someone you love, and the next day you're staring at their name on your phone, wondering how everything fell apart so fast. That whiplash between what was and what is now? It's one of the cruelest parts of betrayal.
You might be wondering if you're going crazy right now. Maybe you catch yourself doing things that don't feel like "you." Perhaps you're checking their social media at odd hours, replaying conversations in your head until you're exhausted, or feeling angry one minute and desperately missing them the next. I want you to hear this. You're not crazy. You're human, and your heart is trying to process something that feels impossible to understand.
Let's talk about something that might feel familiar. Those moments when you're going about your day, maybe grocery shopping or doing something completely ordinary, and suddenly... boom. A song plays over the store speakers, or you spot someone wearing their favorite color, and it hits you like a physical blow. Your hands might shake, your chest might tighten, and suddenly you're fighting back tears in the cereal aisle.
These moments? They're not weakness. They're your heart processing a profound loss. It's like your body keeps forgetting and remembering all at once that someone who was woven into the fabric of your daily life isn't there anymore.
And can we talk about how lonely this kind of pain feels? Because here's the thing. When someone dies, people bring casseroles and send cards. But when someone chooses to leave, or when trust shatters, people often don't know what to say. You might find yourself putting on a brave face at work, pretending you're "fine" when inside, you're falling apart. That disconnect between your outer world and your inner reality is exhausting, isn't it?
Maybe you wake up and for a split second forget, then remember all over again. Perhaps you feel like you can't trust your own memories, wondering if they were ever really who you thought they were. You might be afraid to look at old photos but unable to delete them either. The fear of never feeling safe enough to trust someone again might linger. You might find yourself drawn to things that numb the pain, even though you know they're not good for you.
I want you to know that every single one of these responses makes perfect sense. Your heart is trying to protect you the only way it knows how.
Here's something I've learned from sitting with countless hearts like yours. Healing isn't about "getting over it" or "moving on." Those phrases? They're garbage. Real healing is messier and more honest than that.
Some days, healing looks like crying in your car between meetings. Other days, it's laughing at a friend's joke and realizing you didn't think about them for a whole hour. Healing isn't linear. It's more like learning to dance with the waves of grief and anger and love (because yes, you can still love someone who hurt you, and that doesn't make you weak).
You might notice this pain isn't just emotional. Your sleep might be disrupted, or you might find yourself sleeping too much. Food might lose its taste, or you might turn to it for comfort. Physical exhaustion might hit even when you haven't done anything. Small noises might make you jump. Headaches or stomach aches might visit more often.
Your body isn't betraying you. It's telling you that it needs gentle care right now. Just like you wouldn't expect a broken arm to heal overnight, your heart needs time and tenderness too.
When sleep feels impossible, try creating a playlist of sounds that have nothing to do with them. Maybe ocean waves or city sounds. Keep a notepad by your bed for the racing thoughts that come at 2 AM. Make your bed a phone-free zone (I know it's hard, but trust me on this one).
When memories ambush you, feel your feet on the floor, name the colors you see around you, or hold something cold. Text a friend. Give yourself permission to leave situations that feel too heavy.
When loneliness hits hard, create new rituals for the times of day that feel emptiest. Keep a voice note diary. Sometimes just speaking your pain out loud helps. Find online communities of people who get it, but know when to step back if it gets overwhelming.
I'm not going to tell you that everything happens for a reason, or that time heals all wounds. Those platitudes don't honor the depth of what you're going through. Instead, I want to offer you a different kind of hope.
Hope that's not about forgetting, but about remembering who you are beyond this pain. Hope that acknowledges that yes, this really hurts, and also yes, you have the capacity to carry this pain and still find moments of joy. Hope that's not about erasing them from your story, but about writing new chapters that are entirely your own.
Sometimes we need more than words on a screen. If you're finding it hard to get through basic daily tasks, having thoughts of harming yourself, feeling like the pain is too big to carry, or using substances or behaviors to numb the pain, please reach out for professional support. You deserve to have someone in your corner who's trained to help you navigate this. And if the first person isn't a good fit? That's okay. Keep looking until you find someone who gets it.
Your heart's capacity to love deeply is not a weakness. It's a gift. Even though that gift feels like a curse right now, it's still one of the most beautiful things about you. The trust that was broken? That says something about them, not about you.
You might not believe this yet, but there will come a day when this pain isn't the first thing you feel in the morning. Until then, be gentle with yourself. You're doing the hardest thing there is. Learning to carry an unfinished love story with grace.
Sending you warmth and strength for this journey. You're not alone in this.
With deep care
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