Compassion

As I’ve moved through this healing journey, one of the biggest things I’ve learned is how important it is to show myself compassion. We’re usually so good at being kind to others — patient, understanding, supportive — but when it comes to ourselves? We can be brutal. I’ve realised I need to be my own biggest supporter. My own loudest cheerleader. My own damn best friend.

Over the past six months, I’ve been sticking to a pretty solid routine — I’ve mentioned it before. Early mornings. Running or weight training. Meditating. Being really intentional with my self-talk. And I’ve kept my social circle small. Like, really small. I’ve stayed away from anything or anyone that might pull me into self-doubt or hurt. That kind of isolation helped me feel safe, but honestly, it also got really lonely.

Now that some time has passed, I feel a bit stronger. My thoughts aren’t as heavy or negative, even though my ego still throws its little tantrums sometimes. But I’ve done a good job of protecting myself. I’ve shown up — whether it was cooking a healthy meal or running a half marathon (still proud of that one). And now, for the first time in a while, I feel like I’m ready to let some people back in.

I don’t necessarily mean dating — although, maybe one day — but I do mean connection. Friends. Family. Even just saying yes to a drink after work. I want to experience life again. I want laughter, shared stories, spontaneous nights out. All the stuff that makes life richer.

That said, this next step hasn’t been smooth. I’ve found myself in unfamiliar or uncomfortable situations and, yeah, sometimes I’ve let myself down. But that’s part of it. I don’t have it all figured out. I’m still learning. I’m trying to find a rhythm that allows me to stay healthy and grounded without hiding from the world.

Some days, I want to crawl back into my little bubble. It was warm in there. Safe. But life is happening out here, and I don’t want to keep missing it. I want to live. Fully. Messily. Forward.

And yes — I still miss him. That hasn’t magically disappeared. There are moments of anxiety that creep in, linked to everything that happened and what came after. The thoughts still come, but now I know what to do with them. I can hold them, soften them, reframe them. It doesn’t mean they vanish, but they don’t run the show anymore.

This stuff isn’t easy. I won’t pretend it is. But the way we treat ourselves when we fall apart is where real self-love begins.

Today, I heard this analogy that landed hard — trying to stop missing someone is like trying to scrub out a black dot on a white wall. You can’t erase it, and the more you try, the more you smudge it. The trick is to fill the wall with colour. Dots. Scribbles. Stories. You paint over that space by living — through new experiences, new friendships, new books, new restaurants, random moments after work drinks where you don’t overthink.

You don’t get rid of the past. You just keep adding to the wall.