At first, I dealt with the stress in the worst possible way: by denying it. I forced myself to smile, saying I was fine when inside I was falling apart. Insomnia became my nightly companion, and my grades plummeted. It was my body and mind screaming that something was wrong, even though I tried so hard to silence them.
The turning point came one rainy afternoon when I couldn't take it anymore. Literally. I cried until I had no tears left, and in that emptiness, I understood I needed help. The first thing I did was talk to my mother. It was incredibly difficult; I felt ashamed, as if failing at first love was a reflection of who I was. But her words anchored me: "It hurts because it was real, not because you failed."
From there, I began to build small self-care routines. I resumed exercising, not to look good, but to calm the anxiety that was tightening in my chest. Running became my active meditation, those minutes where only my breath and the rhythm of my feet existed. I also discovered the power of writing. Emptying all those emotions into a notebook—the anger, the longing, the guilt—helped me bring order to the inner chaos.
I understood that post-breakup stress isn't overcome by ignoring it, but by going through it. I allowed myself to feel: one day I missed them, the next I was angry, then the sadness returned. I stopped judging myself for those contradictory emotions. I learned that missing someone doesn't mean you want to get back together; It means that what you experienced was valuable.
Over time, I understood the great lesson of first love: you don't get over a breakup by filling the void with another person or with constant distractions. You get over it by rebuilding your relationship with yourself. I rediscovered who I was outside of that "us." My tastes, my friends, my goals. And little by little, the pain transformed into gratitude. Today I know that the experience didn't break me; it shattered me just enough so that I could rebuild myself, more whole and more aware.
Dealing with that breakup was my first major act of emotional maturity. And although at the time I thought it would never stop hurting, today I smile when I look back on it. Not because of the lost love, but because of the person I had to become to heal.
Credits: I used Google Translate.
The photo is mine, and the images were taken from Pixabay.
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