A message from the broken-hearted, to the broken-hearted on Valentine’s Day

“I stopped wishing I was dead –learned to love myself before anyone else — become more than just a burden. I know I’m more than worthy of your time” — Sorority Noise


I was completely and utterly gutted. My skin felt too tight, like someone was pressing an iron against my cheek, and my throat felt like it was pierced with a fire poker, preventing me from swallowing.

“Oh, so this is what it feels like to be a useless-to-the-earth, pathetic moron.”

A million people could tell you that someone you love is wrong for you or doesn’t deserve you, but unfortunately, you can’t walk among the wildflowers until you sit down to pick the shards of glass from your wounds.

My heart has been broken, and I know in some ways, it’s my fault for keeping a white-knuckle grip on hope, but if there is one blessing in pain, it’s clarity. Clarity that gives you a small flicker of flames that softly illuminate the monsters you’ve let lie next to you in the dark.

My hospital stay, my biopsy, my formal. These are the things that murmured outside my door, but now they keep me warm at the foot of my bed.

I have loved wildly and endlessly. I have never feared being vulnerable, and the coldness, the casually cruel digs, the statements that make me feel small will not seep into the core of my being.

Love will always live here, but so will white-hot pain.  I am sprinting as fast I can with my toes in the mud and my hair in my face to a place where I can see myself more clearly.

See you more clearly.

If you’ve ever had a broken heart, I wish I could be there with you, down on your knees just so you could feel the warmth of another lost human being who gets it.

It’s going to hurt like hell. There will be late-night phone calls (shout out to Jesse Draper), moments of uncertainty and panic, walks around the block with your tenderhearted boss (okay, getting too specific), nights when you eat too much or not at all and accept that you are the world’s most hideous creature, but in the throes of pain, please remember this is not your moment, it’s simply moment. A hiccup. A snapshot. A temporary tattoo. Whatever you need to tell yourself so you know that this is not your defining story.

You never think you’re brave until you have to be, and believe me, love, you are brave. You might break some nails and fall face first onto a bed of jagged rocks while you’re getting there, but eventually you realize that in spite of the insanity of life, pain of loss, and randomness of the cruel world, your heart and spirit live on.

Your moment will come, and then it will pass, and just when you think it won’t ever happen, it comes again.

Hang on tight and find the beauty in the wave, because it’s there. I promise.

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