I ended a relationship last night too—one I spent the last year building. I don’t have the perfect words for healing right now, but I want you to know I see you. I know how heavy and disorienting this kind of loss can feel. I’m holding space for you and sending love as you move through the waves.
An avoidant as I later discovered myself as, I love so fiercely—sheltering the boys I've kissed, begging so hard my knees scraped when they leave—and then waking up from grief as if they were never part of my life. Any habit I absorbed while dating them, I claimed as mine. Every piece of clothing they left, I cut and sewn, claimed as mine. The hematite earring, the little scratch on my car—I rewrite narratives even when they're painted as mosaics left from the boys whose names I deleted from my phone. Like a decluttering addict, I deleted their faces of my gallery, I deleted their messages from my archive.
I envy people who could still hold on to what had once deprived them of euphoria—gathering their token of existence in a little corner of their room without having to remember their memory of desperately crying for their return. I don't have that kind of strength.
This is so heartbreakingly honest—and so familiar. The way you describe loving with such intensity, only to erase with equal force, hits something deep. That instinct to claim every trace as yours—to rewrite, reshape, survive—is its own kind of fierce devotion. And I don’t think it means you lack strength. If anything, it’s a strength born from necessity. From knowing that sometimes, the only way to protect yourself is to clean the slate so thoroughly it no longer echoes. Some of us grieve by clinging. Some of us grieve by shedding. Both are ways of trying to find a version of ourselves that feels safe again. Thank you for putting this into words so vividly.
This post reminded me of how I fiercely held onto my mom’s memory. Losing her so young and unexpectedly was a heartbreak a child is unable to transmute. So my identities shifted—to act like “it never happened,” or that it “happened for the best.”
There was no catharsis until very recently. Grief is tricky. Grief knows its right to exist, and it will make itself known in any way possible.
You expressed this beautifully here:
“I’ll still find myself circling the ache like a bruise I can’t help pressing.”
Even today, grief is finally making itself at home—accepted, but still getting to know the layout of the barren place left over from having to grow up too soon.
It’s like a peek through the door, checking in on the prodigal child who’s returned to a room that was cleaned up spotless. Grief can tell when the space isn’t fully ready to let it in.
Wow. Thank you for sharing this—your words hit with such quiet force. That image of grief checking in like a prodigal child, sensing whether the room is ready, is so deeply resonant. I’m so sorry you had to carry that kind of loss so early, and then hold it in so many shapes just to survive. You're right—grief will find a way to exist, whether or not we give it permission. And there’s something powerful in what you said: that it’s only now starting to feel at home. Like it finally gets to be honored, not hidden. I’m really moved by your story. Thank you again for letting this piece be a mirror.
That means a lot, Stephanie. It is hard to even re-read my own words. Unpacking each story carried in the luggage of my grief will take time to integrate. Something I am slowly coming to terms with.
Finding community, specifically one that catalyzes through creative expression has been crucial. Thank you 🙏 😊
I broke up with someone I've loved for seven years last night, and reading this today felt like a big, warm hug. thank you <3
I ended a relationship last night too—one I spent the last year building. I don’t have the perfect words for healing right now, but I want you to know I see you. I know how heavy and disorienting this kind of loss can feel. I’m holding space for you and sending love as you move through the waves.
As if longing isn’t a feral thing… I really love that line ✨
Each line of your writing is turned so lovingly. What a beautiful read.
Thank you so much!
This is so beautiful - I restacked one of my fave paragraphs.
Thank you SO much for reading and sharing 💜
You're welcome! I really enjoyed this piece!
This is the most “seen” I’ve felt by writing in a minute. Thank you (‘:
Thank YOU for being here. Grateful for you.
An avoidant as I later discovered myself as, I love so fiercely—sheltering the boys I've kissed, begging so hard my knees scraped when they leave—and then waking up from grief as if they were never part of my life. Any habit I absorbed while dating them, I claimed as mine. Every piece of clothing they left, I cut and sewn, claimed as mine. The hematite earring, the little scratch on my car—I rewrite narratives even when they're painted as mosaics left from the boys whose names I deleted from my phone. Like a decluttering addict, I deleted their faces of my gallery, I deleted their messages from my archive.
I envy people who could still hold on to what had once deprived them of euphoria—gathering their token of existence in a little corner of their room without having to remember their memory of desperately crying for their return. I don't have that kind of strength.
This is so heartbreakingly honest—and so familiar. The way you describe loving with such intensity, only to erase with equal force, hits something deep. That instinct to claim every trace as yours—to rewrite, reshape, survive—is its own kind of fierce devotion. And I don’t think it means you lack strength. If anything, it’s a strength born from necessity. From knowing that sometimes, the only way to protect yourself is to clean the slate so thoroughly it no longer echoes. Some of us grieve by clinging. Some of us grieve by shedding. Both are ways of trying to find a version of ourselves that feels safe again. Thank you for putting this into words so vividly.
Great writing
Thanks so much for reading! 💜
Ahhhhhh - YES - all of this!! I especially connected with: “I’ve never loved lightly, so I’ve never been able to forget lightly either” gah.
So glad that this resonated for you.
This post reminded me of how I fiercely held onto my mom’s memory. Losing her so young and unexpectedly was a heartbreak a child is unable to transmute. So my identities shifted—to act like “it never happened,” or that it “happened for the best.”
There was no catharsis until very recently. Grief is tricky. Grief knows its right to exist, and it will make itself known in any way possible.
You expressed this beautifully here:
“I’ll still find myself circling the ache like a bruise I can’t help pressing.”
Even today, grief is finally making itself at home—accepted, but still getting to know the layout of the barren place left over from having to grow up too soon.
It’s like a peek through the door, checking in on the prodigal child who’s returned to a room that was cleaned up spotless. Grief can tell when the space isn’t fully ready to let it in.
Wow. Thank you for sharing this—your words hit with such quiet force. That image of grief checking in like a prodigal child, sensing whether the room is ready, is so deeply resonant. I’m so sorry you had to carry that kind of loss so early, and then hold it in so many shapes just to survive. You're right—grief will find a way to exist, whether or not we give it permission. And there’s something powerful in what you said: that it’s only now starting to feel at home. Like it finally gets to be honored, not hidden. I’m really moved by your story. Thank you again for letting this piece be a mirror.
That means a lot, Stephanie. It is hard to even re-read my own words. Unpacking each story carried in the luggage of my grief will take time to integrate. Something I am slowly coming to terms with.
Finding community, specifically one that catalyzes through creative expression has been crucial. Thank you 🙏 😊