Heartbreak Rehab: Week Whatever
There are the in-between moments that no one talks about. The not-quite-over-it, still-finding-my-way kinda days. Healing didn’t come wrapped in rituals or self-care checklists. It came in waves—panic, silence, grief, and clarity. It’s the heartbreak that lingers long after the goodbye. The lessons disguised as love. The quiet unraveling. Writing from the middle of it all – pull up a chair.
The Broken Poet
4/27/20252 min read
My version of healing didn’t come with a candle or a yoga mat.
It came with anxiety.
Panic attacks.
Deafening silence.
It looked like watching my world crumble over and over again—
because I cared too much,
trusted too soon,
and maybe just wasn’t paying close enough attention.
Along the way, I picked up a whole new vocabulary:
codependence, narcissism, self-love—
and all the other therapy buzzwords floating around social media.
Isn’t it wild how we now have language to label every feeling, every wound?
We can hold full conversations about trauma,
diagnose every ex with a disorder,
and dissect our pain like it’s some kind of group project.
The tools are everywhere: books, courses, TikToks, breathwork apps.
Self-help is having its moment.
And before you think I’m shitting on it—I’m not.
We’ve come a long way in giving voice to what we used to bury.
There’s beauty in that.
There’s progress.
But here’s the thing…
We also cling to words when they fit our narrative.
We dress our dysfunction in well-branded language.
And sometimes, we forget to ask ourselves:
Do I even know what healing really means?
I’m still figuring that part out.
What I can tell you for sure is—it’s not glamorous.
Social media sells us this picture-perfect version of healing:
Go to therapy (because we all should),
book a retreat,
lean into the discomfort,
do the work…
Eventually, the clouds part, the heavens open,
and you feel whole again.
Except that’s not how it went.
It’s been three years since I walked away from Mr. Almost.
And while I should feel proud of choosing myself,
the truth is,
I’m still healing from the fact that it took me so long to leave.
You’d think walking away would feel like freedom.
A breakthrough.
But what came next was the part I didn’t see coming.
No one talks about after.
The part where you’re still expected to function—
go to work,
pay bills,
show up,
be social—
all while your nervous system is screaming.
You crave comfort and isolation at the same time.
And no quote,
no podcast,
no meditation
can hold you for more than a few hours.
Everything else fades to the background,
while you quietly try to survive a pain no one else can see.
A couple of years later,
I thought I was ready.
I opened my heart again.
And in walked someone who seemed to speak my language.
Kind.
Present.
Intentional.
Safe.
He showed up like everything I’d been manifesting.
Like proof that maybe the worst was finally behind me.
But sometimes, what looks like healing
is just another lesson in disguise.
And just like that—I found myself back in heartbreak rehab.
Only this time,
I’m not trying to fix it.
I’m just sitting with it.
Letting it burn.
Letting it break me open—not because I want to suffer,
but because maybe this is what healing actually looks like:
Messy.
Nonlinear.
Unbranded.
Real.