When I first broke my heart, it was actually painfully broken – I remember feeling too embarrassed to ask for support. I didn’t talk to anyone. Because at the time, there were not many people I trusted with such raw, soft parts of myself.
I cried a lot, so the people around me knew something had happened, but looking back, I think it’s tragic that I didn’t have any friends or family that I felt open and safe enough. You won’t cry in the ice cream tub. It’s tragic, but a bit clearer.
Like all the painful experiences of loss, it eventually became more endurable. I resumed my normal routine. Heartbreak is another part of life and we move on over time, right?
Over a decade later, when I slammed a letter I had written to me right after the breakup. I found it in my parents’ house, in a pocket of an old pair of pants, in a drawer full of restless years of adults when there was no true home in my own home.
I pulled it out and instantly recognized it and sunk my stomach. Has anyone found it and read it? Imagine that. Shame exceeded curiosity, even years later. However, the envelope was still sealed. It had his name written on my handwritten front.
The letter was written to him, but it was always for me. When I wrote it I was owned with misery, and when I reread the words I came back to the pain. But over the years, I saw something I couldn’t grasp at the time.
At the time I believed that pain was losing him. Without him it felt like the black hole of my life. And yes, part of my pain was certainly about him. But if I were honest, our connection wasn’t strong enough to justify the depth of pain I felt when it was over.
The true source of my pain – the pain of my guts for the next few weeks – wasn’t about him. It was about what his rejection confirmed for me.
I’m not enough.
That’s why the whole experience was so closely linked to feeling embarrassed (or even more) than feeling sad. All the anxiety I carried since I was a child was unwise enough, not funny enough, not attractive enough, not cool enough, not sexy enough, not fun enough, justified the moment I decided that it wasn’t for him. Losing him was a personal failure and a reflection of my insignificant things.
More than that, I realized that our entire relationship is a hopeless attempt to prove our worth. If I could be loved by him, I would have been enough. That was my only focus. And in making it my focus, I stumbled the relationship.
In the early days, I was me. That’s what sparked the appeal. But as we committed, I realized everything he thought was necessary to continue to want me. I stopped being there. I stopped enjoying him. Without realizing it, I created a drama. Not because I wanted it, but because I need to prove that he will take good care of him to stay. I was obsessed with being enough for him, so I never paused to ask myself if he was enough for me.
I didn’t know that, but breaking up isn’t hurt because of who we lost. They open something deeper. They expose wounds that we didn’t even know we were carrying.
At the time I saw other people, especially my ex-. But looking back, we can see how misguided it was. I wasn’t broken. I was taking into consideration my self-loathing. No support. There is no reason to see how human it is.
I wish I had known that the pain of breaking up doesn’t necessarily mean that someone else will miss out. It is also about what a sense of escape within you stirs up. It’s about how a sudden loss of connection raises your own worth.
I tried to pretend I was okay, push through, distract myself, and strengthen. I hated him and tried to stick to all his flaws. But avoidance is not healing. It’s just postponing what’s inevitable. The feelings I had refused to process did not go away. They resurfaced in a quiet moment when my self-doubt, my choices, when there was not enough distractions.
Standing at my parents’ house that day, I was able to see the windows I had missed the opportunity. I realized that experiencing it on its own for my shame never gave the experience an opportunity to be properly digested. The same inner critic and shame resurfaced again and again in the years that followed.
When I get back, I’ll tell myself a few important things.
This is not something you just get over. It’s something to move. Pain is not here to break you – it asks for your attention. True strength doesn’t pretend you’re fine. It allows you to feel what you need to feel. Get the right support from therapists, coaches and trustworthy guides. It will change the experience not by making you more difficult, but by making you perfect. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting. That doesn’t mean you wake up one day and realize you don’t care anymore. It means learning from loss. I have a deeper understanding of myself. Move forward with a clearer understanding of what you really need and deserve.
I cannot go back and give this wisdom to my younger self. Who knows if they were ready to listen anyway? But I can offer it to anyone who might be there now. I wonder why it still hurts and they end up becoming “more than that.”
truth? The most painful moments in our lives often have the biggest invitation for self-discovery. By normalizing our pain and meeting it with self-compassion, we can unlock the large-scale personal growth.
We will not overcome unharmed lives. We get hurt. We face pain. You need to accept things you don’t understand.
But if we learn to turn inward, we can evolve as it becomes a safe haven for ourselves and is full of kindness and understanding. Rather than repeating the same lesson over and over, bringing that wisdom to the next experience, you can change your life.
So here is my wish for all of you who have broken my heart. You meet your pain. It will stay in your heart.
About Natasha Ramral
Natasha Ramlal is a trauma-informed, mental and physical health practitioner. She helps individuals see their pain in new ways, moving them to more evolved levels of mental and physical health, wholeness and healing. Learn more with her or visit Humanistcoaching.ca to get free audio from the past, a 24-minute mix of visualization, mindfulness and hypnosis. Regain your nervous system to balance when you have any of the “something” days.
