There’s a particular kind of ache that follows a heartbreak, the kind that leaves you unraveling at your own feet, wondering if the pieces that made you lovable have scattered somewhere too far to ever find again. I’ve been there. I’ve curled into that darkness, searching for the familiar arms I once thought would always be there. But the truth is, breakups don’t just separate people, they separate illusions. They strip away what we thought we needed, and leave us face-to-face with who we actually are.

After my last breakup, I didn’t recognize myself. I had poured so much of my identity into being “someone’s person” that I had forgotten how to be my own. For a while, I mourned not just the relationship, but the version of me I had lost. The one who used to laugh without shrinking. The one who spoke her mind without editing. The one who didn’t apologize for taking up space.

So, I started over. Not with someone new, but with me.

I took myself on long walks. I bought flowers for my own kitchen table. I wrote letters to my heart, promising I’d never abandon her again. I cried in bathtubs and danced in living rooms. I listened to the quiet parts of me I had silenced for too long. And slowly, almost imperceptibly, I began to fall in love… With the sound of my own laugh, with the fire in my words, with the softness of my healing.

And then… something unexpected happened.

He came into my life like a whisper, not a storm. There was no grand chase or fireworks, just a gentle unfolding. He didn’t fall in love with the version of me I used to perform. He saw me. The messy, vibrant, complicated me. The woman who was still learning how to let herself be fully seen.

He loved the way my voice cracked when I talked about things that mattered. He noticed the way I lit up when I felt safe. He didn’t flinch when I got quiet, when I pulled back, when the old wounds rose to the surface. Instead, he leaned in. Not to fix me but to understand me.

It’s wild, falling for someone who mirrors back parts of you that you’ve only just begun to love yourself. It’s vulnerable and terrifying and beautiful beyond belief. Because this time, I’m not loving from a place of needing to be completed. I’m loving from wholeness. From truth. From a heart that knows her worth.

The kind of love I found after letting go wasn’t just romantic. It was revolutionary. It was real. It was rooted in the love I first learned to give myself.

So, if you’re reading this with a broken heart, know this: you are not broken. You are becoming. And the love that is meant for you (the one that sees you clearly and holds you gently) will meet you exactly where you are. But first, let yourself meet you.

And fall wildly, madly, deeply in love with her.

with love,

c.p