Life doesn’t end after the last goodbye.
Have you ever lost someone and felt like your world was collapsing in slow motion? Like something inside you was unraveling, and no matter how tightly you clutched at the frayed edges, you couldn’t hold yourself together?
Breakups have a way of convincing us that we’ve lost something irreplaceable. That the happiness we once felt was the pinnacle, that no one will ever look at us quite the same way again. It feels like they left with more than just their belongings—they walked away carrying a piece of us, a part so essential we wonder if we’ll ever feel whole again.
The cruelest part? It’s universal. Every person you pass on the street has their own story of loss, their own ghosts trailing behind them. We lose people to distance, to time, to addiction, to death. And sometimes, we lose people simply because the universe never meant for them to stay.
And yet, despite its inevitability, no one has ever created a cure for heartbreak.
Maybe that’s why people turn to vices—to alcohol, to distraction, to anything that numbs the rawness of loss. But no matter what, the sun will still rise, its rays will spill through your window, a quiet reminder that you are waking up without them,again. That the world keeps turning, indifferent to the wreckage inside you.
And here is the hardest truth: they are never coming back.
No matter how much you change yourself, no matter how much weight you lose, how many books you read, how much money you make—nothing will undo what has already happened. And yes, that is a heartbreaking reality, but it is reality nonetheless.
So, where does that leave you?
Why Letting Go Feels Impossible
There’s a reason heartbreak feels unbearable. Scientifically, love is an addiction. Studies show that romantic rejection activates the same regions of the brain as physical pain. Your mind treats their absence like an injury, one that throbs long after they’ve gone. The withdrawal symptoms, the obsessive thoughts, the sleepless nights? They’re biological. Love floods the brain with dopamine, and when it’s ripped away, your system crashes. You crave them. You go through withdrawal. Your brain doesn’t understand why the person who once brought you euphoria is now gone, and so it fights — to remember them, to keep them close, even if it’s only in your mind.
Psychologically, we struggle to let go because we are wired to seek closure. We hold funerals for the dead. We throw parties for milestones. We mark our calendars with anniversaries and goodbyes because we are desperate to place meaning on the things that break us. It’s how we make sense of the chaos, how we pretend we have control over the things we never did.
But here’s the thing: closure isn’t something you find. It’s something you accept.
It does not come in the form of a final text message, an apology, or a grand realization. It does not come from burning old letters, deleting their number, or swearing you’ll never say their name again. Closure comes from surrender. From making peace with the fact that they were once a part of your story — and now they are not.
The Choice to Move On
Here’s what nobody tells you—getting over someone isn’t something that just happens with time. It’s a decision. A brutal, exhausting, daily decision.
You have to wake up and choose to stop looking for them in crowded rooms.
You have to choose to stop checking their social media, to stop replaying old memories like a song stuck on repeat.
You have to choose yourself, over and over again, until one day it doesn’t feel like a choice anymore—it just is.
And yes, I know—right now, that feels impossible. Right now, you feel like you’re drowning, like you can’t imagine a world where their absence doesn’t hurt. But ask yourself this: Do you really want to wake up six months from now, a year from now, and still feel like this? Do you want to look back and realize you spent all that time waiting for someone who isn’t waiting for you?
Because here’s the truth: there is a world beyond them. A world filled with strangers who will one day be your best friends, with cities you haven’t yet wandered to, with songs you haven’t yet heard that will make your heart race in a way you thought only they could. There are thousands of people still waiting to meet you. And you owe it to yourself to go meet them.
So, what do you do now? You take control of the only thing you can: yourself.
You do not scroll through their social media. You do not replay old voicemails or search for them in crowded rooms. You do not let them linger in places they no longer belong. Instead, you build a life so beautiful that you no longer miss the one you lost.
You go outside. You move your body. You fill your time with people who make you laugh, who remind you that love exists in many forms. You rediscover music. You write, you paint, you create. You book trips. You find new coffee shops. You remind yourself, every single day, that you are still here. That you existed before them, and you will exist after them.
And if you need proof that heartbreak is not the end, look at the greats. Look at artists who turned their pain into masterpieces. Look at writers who bled their grief onto the page and left behind something eternal. Look at musicians who carved melodies from their sorrow. Vincent Van Gogh painted through his loneliness. Adele wrote entire albums about heartbreak. Frida Kahlo poured her pain into every brushstroke. Taylor Swift turned her past into poetry, song after song.
They did not let loss define them. And neither will you.
Because here’s the truth: the part of yourself you thought was theirs—the one you believe they took when they left—was never really about them. It was always about you. They didn’t give you those feelings; they only revealed what was already inside you. And if you had it once, you can have it again.
So, take a deep breath. Feel your lungs expand, feel your heart still beating.
You are alive. You are moving forward. And no matter how heavy this feels right now, one day, you will wake up, stretch beneath the morning sun, and realize—
You have let them go.
And you are okay.