
When I was in the middle of my divorce, I didn’t feel like I was healing at all. I cried every single day — floor crying, shower crying, car crying. I saw two different therapists twice a week because I was unraveling. I stopped eating, then started binge eating. I felt like a ghost of myself, drifting through the motions of life while everyone else seemed fine.
If you had asked me then if I was “healing,” I would’ve laughed in your face. Healing felt like an Instagram aesthetic that I wanted so badly. The glowing skin, the matcha lattes, the breakup haircut that made everyone comment “new era vibes.” Meanwhile, I was still emailing my ex about unpaid bills (because I blocked him) and trying my best to hold it all together.
But here’s the thing: healing doesn’t always feel like healing while you’re in it. Sometimes it feels like chaos. Sometimes it feels like nothing. And sometimes, it feels worse before it gets better. That doesn’t mean you’re not moving forward.
These are the sneaky, un-aesthetic signs you’re actually healing, even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.
Sure, you still cry. But it’s not constant. One day, you realize you went a whole afternoon without breaking down and that’s progress.
At first, even saying his name was enough to set off a spiral. Now you can talk about it — maybe with tears, maybe with humor — but it doesn’t wreck your whole day.
I used to check his page like it was my morning news. Healing started when I realized I forgot to look… and didn’t even care. And eventually I blocked him all together which was true peace.
During the worst parts, my body couldn’t regulate anything. Either I couldn’t eat at all, or I was inhaling pints of ice cream like oxygen. Slowly, food started tasting like food again. That’s your body learning safety.
Even over small things — haircuts, tattoos, what show to watch — you’re slowly moving through life without filtering decisions through his opinion. (For me, that meant getting tattoos when people were concerned, because he didn’t know the version of me with ink. That version is mine.)
The song, the street, the restaurant you swore you’d avoid forever — they don’t send you into a meltdown anymore. They hurt, but it’s a dull ache instead of an open wound.
The first time you laugh for real after heartbreak feels almost wrong. But it’s proof: joy is still in you, even if it’s been buried under grief.
At first, all you see is the hole he left. Healing starts when you imagine something else — even if it’s tiny, like picturing a vacation with your friends or moving to a new apartment.
Healing is not linear. It doesn’t follow an aesthetic. It’s not something you can perform for the internet. Sometimes healing is ugly crying. Sometimes it’s doing nothing at all. Sometimes it’s just waking up another day and proving to yourself that you’re still here.
If you’re reading this and thinking, “but I don’t feel healed”, I promise you, you’re further along than you think.
And if you want to hear the full messy version, I talk about it in Episode 2 of His Loss Hotline. Spoiler: I didn’t get bangs… but I did get through it. And you will too.
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