Heartbreak has a way of shaking your world, leaving everything you once knew upended.

In those early moments, survival was my only goal. And, honestly, that felt ambitious enough. I just wanted to make it through the day without the constant ache of loss threatening to swallow me whole. If I could go a few hours without staring into the void, I considered it a win. But somewhere in that effort to simply stay afloat, I found that I was doing more than just surviving. I was starting to rebuild, piece by piece, in ways I hadn’t expected. I was actively choosing to care for myself in ways that strengthened me, both inside and out.

Here’s how I found my way through.

Movement as a Language for Grief

I don’t think we talk enough about the way heartbreak lives in the body. It settles in your chest, tight and heavy. It weighs down your limbs. It makes even the simplest movements feel exhausting.

So I moved. I moved not because I wanted to “get in shape” or because I thought it would make me feel instantly better, but because I didn’t know what else to do with all the emotions trapped inside me. And so, walking became my refuge. I still kept up with my workouts a couple of times a week as I currently do, still stretched into yoga poses that mirrored my tangled emotions, but it was walking that saved me. Nothing held me the way walking did. There was something primal about it, something meditative. With every step, I felt like I was sifting through the wreckage of what was and slowly making sense of what remained.

And then there was the music. Music has always been my compass. But now, it became a lifeline, one of the few things that truly mattered. It wasn’t just something I listened to. It was something that listened back. The jagged edges of a guitar riff, the slow burn of a melancholic verse, the defiant swell of a chorus rising from the wreckage. Each note gave shape to what felt shapeless inside me.

Music and walking became entwined. They didn’t erase my grief, but they changed its shape. They made it fluid, bearable, something I could carry with me and work through rather than be suffocated by.

Fueling Myself Right: Eating Like I Give a Damn

Heartbreak can really mess with your appetite. You either can’t bring yourself to eat or you’re downing comfort food like there’s no tomorrow. But with nine years of being vegan under my belt and a borderline obsession with nutrition, I knew I had to do better. I had a secret weapon: food as therapy. So I made a conscious choice to cook meals that weren’t just quick fixes. A nourishing smoothie and a hearty lunch were like a hug from the inside out. A mini celebration that I was, in fact, surviving the chaos.

So I cooked. I made meals that were as vibrant as my mood swings and as nutritious as my decade-long obsession with plant-based goodness. Cooking became a little ritual of self-respect and each dish was a reminder that loving yourself doesn’t always have to be serious. Sometimes, it’s just about making sure your body gets the good stuff, even if it’s through a hummus-filled, kale-laden wrap. Because at the end of the day, if you can’t laugh through the chaos, at least you can eat well.

Reclaiming Joy in Small, Uncomplicated Ways

When you share your life with someone, your interests often become entangled with theirs. After my breakup, I had to reconnect with the things I loved. Not because they were tied to a relationship, but because they were tied to me. Every single day, I made space for something that brought me peace. And it made me realize there was something deeply healing about doing things for no other reason than the fact that they make you happy. No ulterior motive, no strategy for moving on. Just pure, simple joy.

And so, reading became my daily anchor, each book a doorway back to parts of myself I had abandoned in the blur of a relationship. It wasn’t just about the stories. It was about letting the words sink deep, finding comfort in the rhythm of a narrative and remembering that my thoughts could still roam freely, unrestrained.

Board games, too, took on new life. Although at the beginning they felt like a reminder of what was missing. But after a while, they became my personal sanctuary. Oh, the joy of strategy, of competition, of shared laughter. It was a quiet rebellion against the silence left by the breakup, a way of reclaiming my own space for enjoyment without needing anyone else to fill it.

And then there were the pastel classes that worked like therapy, but with more color and less talking, thanks to my cool and laid-back teacher and friend, who taught me that art was about letting go. It was here where I understood that, sometimes, the most beautiful things happen when you stop trying so hard to control every stroke.

In moments like these, I rediscovered that joy doesn’t need to be loud or grand. Sometimes, it’s a quiet act of showing up for yourself, a deliberate choice to sink into the things that have always been yours. And in doing so, I found that joy, when nurtured, quietly transforms the spaces within, one day at a time.

Traveling to Reclaim My Sense of Wonder

My home had become a prison of memories. It was hard to breathe in a space that felt so intertwined with what had been. So I left. Not as an escape, but as a way to remember that the world was bigger than my grief.

Traveling alone again felt strange at first. I was used to sharing new experiences, to turning and saying, Look at this. But then I realized: I could still experience wonder, still feel connected to the world around me, on my own. I could stand beneath a sky that stretched farther than I could see and feel small, yes, but in the most humbling, freeing way. It reminded me that I was not defined by what I had lost, but by the countless experiences that I had and the ones waiting for me to step into them. I was a traveler, a witness, someone with an entire world to discover.

Embracing Solitude: A Season Meant Just for Me

In the strange, weightless months that followed the breakup, I met someone who felt like a rare alignment: kind, intelligent, full of quiet depth. He came into my life like a gentle echo of possibility – thoughtful in ways that felt effortless, the kind of rare presence that doesn’t demand attention, but holds it all the same. For a while, I let myself lean in – curious, cautious, warmed by the possibility of something new. But beneath that warmth, I could feel it: the unmistakable pull inward. Not away from him, but back to myself. Not because he wasn’t someone truly special, but because I hadn’t yet remembered that I was, too.

It wasn’t about fear or avoidance. It was about timing. And truth. I hadn’t yet sat fully inside the ruins of what had come before. I hadn’t yet honored the silence after the collapse. And I knew that if I didn’t take the time to inhabit my own solitude, I would be building over a foundation still cracked by someone else’s absence. We parted ways for reasons that neither of us could ignore, but what became clear to me was that I needed to be on my own for a while – not out of sorrow, not out of fear, but because I needed to hear the sound of my own thoughts without them harmonizing with someone else’s. I needed to rebuild not in response to love, but in the absence of it.

I’ve always thought that relationships are fertile ground for transformation, but I also think there is a certain kind of growth that can only happen when no one is watching, when your days are your own and your inner world takes up all the space. That’s what I was craving – not escape, but reentry. Not loneliness, but the full, unfiltered truth of who I was becoming.

Solitude became the sacred pause, the space between who I had been in love and who I was becoming without it. A place not of emptiness, but of radical reconstruction. I didn’t need a new story just yet. I needed to become the kind of person who could write one without rushing to fill the page. Because some seasons aren’t meant for falling in love with someone new. They are meant for remembering how to fall in love with yourself again.

Choosing the Right People to Hold Me Up

I’ve always been someone who prides myself on being independent. But I learned that healing isn’t something you have to do alone.

My friends became my anchors, not because they had all the answers, but because they reminded me of who I was outside of my relationship. They understood that I didn’t just want to quickly move on. They made space for me to exist, to grieve, to laugh again when I was ready.

Investing in my friendships wasn’t just about seeking support. It was about recognizing that love comes in many forms. And sometimes, the love of friends is the most stable, grounding force you can have.

Starting New Projects: Answering the Big Questions

Heartbreak has a way of forcing you to confront yourself. It strips away the noise, leaving you with the raw, unfiltered truth of your own life.

I used this time not only to reflect on the relationship but to examine myself. What patterns had I been repeating? What kind of future did I want to create? Which parts of me had I been neglecting? And then, about a year after the breakup, something shifted. I started new projects, not as a way to fill the void, but as deliberate acts of shaping the life I wanted to live. I made choices that reflected the person I was becoming and distanced myself from things that no longer nourished me. I started pursuing work that ignited a spark within me, even if it was harder, uncertain or less conventional.

This transformation wasn’t only about career changes. It was a redefinition of how I wanted to live. I stopped saying yes to things that drained me and learned to stop shrinking to fit into spaces that no longer felt true.

Then there was something I had always dreamed of doing. Something that had lived in my mind for as long as I could remember, but that never fully took shape. Perhaps it was fear that held me back, or the excuse of being too busy, or maybe I had always been waiting for the “right” moment. But now, with nothing left to hold me in place, I had the freedom to finally step into it.

So, I began. At first, it was just tentative steps, unsure and small. But the more I committed to it, the more it became clear: this was what I was supposed to be doing.

Starting this new chapter wasn’t about filling the space left behind by the breakup. It was about stepping into the person I had always dreamed of being.

The Truth About Moving On

For me, moving on wasn’t about rushing to fill the void with someone new or pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t. It was about allowing myself to feel, to sit with the discomfort, to process, to choose myself even on the days when it felt like the hardest thing to do. Moving on was about rebuilding, rediscovering who I was outside of a relationship and understanding what I truly wanted from life. It was uncomfortable at times, but necessary.

Then, one day, almost without noticing, the silence no longer felt like emptiness. It felt like possibility. Like peace. Like a life that was mine to build, on my own terms. And, in that moment, I understood: the real triumph wasn’t just moving on, but moving forward, fully and completely as myself.