I’m approaching the six-month mark since my nine-year relationship ended. I wrote an article after 30 days with my best advice for getting through the immediate aftermath, and while I wouldn’t change a word of it—because it reflected exactly where I was at the time—things feel different now.
As healing shifts and evolves, so does perspective. I’m here to offer some fresh wisdom on navigating the aftermath of a relationship I never imagined I’d live without.
And I’ll admit, my last article was about blasting music down the highway and simply surviving. This advice sits a little heavier. But that’s because this is when the real work begins—and it matters.
The need for constant distraction will end, so find something productive to do with that time
I spent the first three months of my breakup hungover, binge-watching TV, entertaining week-long flings with men I barely even liked, and genuinely dissociating from the constant stimulation I was using to block out my thoughts. On top of managing normal day-to-day responsibilities, I weirdly felt like I had no time: my brain was always occupied—and I kept it that way. Because when I slowed down, the panic and heartache felt insurmountable.
But eventually—and definitely not overnight—the need to completely check out began to fade. I started getting curious about myself again. I craved a new routine. And when I finally stretched those slow moments and found myself with more empty time, I was surprised by how uncomfortable boredom felt. The boredom that comes from not being in your old life anymore, but not quite in your new one either.
Some nights I would sit on my bed just staring at the wall, feeling increasingly restless. And this is where the work begins.
Find something to do with that time that builds you up and contributes to the life you’re trying to create.
I shelved the bottle of wine and started small. Still picking a movie—but drawing while I watched it. Going to the gym in the evenings and looking forward to showering and cooking dinner before bed. Researching trips I wanted to take. Writing these articles.
Once you can sit with yourself without immediately unraveling, filling your time with things that make you excited about your future gives you something solid to move toward.
Which leads me to my next point…
It might get worse before it gets better
Unfortunately, rock bottom might greet you around the 90-day mark. When the three-day hangover feels like your body is shutting down, the “distraction dates” won’t stop texting, and you haven’t washed your sheets in weeks—you might wake up one morning and think, oh shit. The anxiety that stems from living out of alignment with yourself can sneak up on you.
I had a few of those mornings. My heart sank so low it felt like it was in my stomach, like my own body was swallowing it whole. I didn’t recognize myself. After running full-speed toward a cliff and mistaking the free-fall for freedom, I realized I wasn’t liberated—I was plummeting toward the consequences of my own avoidance and unprocessed self-worth issues.
And even once you hit bottom, the work isn’t over. You have to heal from the self-destruction, too.
This part is important: be slow and gentle with yourself. During that stretch, I was filled with so much self-disgust that I gave myself panic attacks. I called my mom one afternoon, voice cracking, telling her I felt like a bad person. Sometimes what feels like shame is really just accountability arriving all at once.
Grief doesn’t only show up when someone leaves. It can drown you when you abandon yourself and suddenly realize you’re damaging the most important relationship you have: the one with yourself.
When those mornings catch you off guard—and they will at times—focus on rebuilding in small ways. Take a long shower. Put on clean, comfortable clothes. Wash your sheets. Call someone who loves you. Go to bed early. Wake up the next day committed to taking care of yourself.
After a few days or a few weeks, the relief of routine will return. Just be kind to yourself while you readjust. Sometimes you have to sink low enough to push off the bottom and rise back to the surface.
Take accountability for what’s your fault, and take the time alone to do something about it
Ouch. This one hurts.
In the early chaos of the breakup—especially because he was the one who moved out and left me alone in the apartment—I was furious. I felt stranded in the worst purgatory of my life.
I fought with him relentlessly, demanding explanations. The more he answered, the angrier I became. He was hurting too, and in that pain, he showed parts of himself I wish I’d never seen—saying things about my character and “intrinsic flaws” that cut deep. It was easy to feel like the victim. And in a lot of ways, I was. But living there is a dead end.
Breakups don’t just explode because two people stop loving each other. They detonate over old trauma, attachment patterns, poor communication, and emotional landmines that neither person fully understands.
I entered that relationship with a heavy suitcase: shaky self-worth, discomfort taking up space, and an anxious attachment that flared at the slightest conflict.
Do these tender places in my heart define me? Of course not. But they are soft spots that are often the first to bleed.
Being on my own after nearly a decade in a relationship has given me perspective I couldn’t access before. I’ve had to confront the unmet needs and old wounds that quietly ruled my reactions.
Your inner child is where those old fears live. And until you learn to hold that younger version of yourself steady, you’ll keep looking for someone else to do it for you.
In healthy relationships, we care for each other’s inner child. But if you solely rely on your partner to make you feel whole, it will eventually unravel. Over the last six months, I’ve spent real time asking myself what makes me feel safe, secure, and grounded—without outsourcing that responsibility.
So my advice? Going to therapy helps. Reading books. Journaling with intentionally guided prompts. Nothing replaces the work of identifying your blind spots. Not only does it give you emotional control—it’s essential groundwork for the next relationship you step into.
Going through life pointing the finger outward leaves you tripping over your own shoelaces and blaming someone else for the fall.
And if you pretend you don’t have any laces at all, that denial hardens into an even heavier fall.
If there was anything about yourself you dampened while with them, pour energy into those parts of you
When the partying, distracting, wallowing, and confusion begin to recede, try to remember who you were before. If there were hobbies, dreams, creative impulses, or parts of yourself you put on hold for the relationship—bring them back.
Relationships can become a beautiful, safe place to settle. Love makes even the mundane feel exciting. But when you’re on your own—especially in a season of change—lean into that expansion.
I’ve always loved writing, but I’ve found a new confidence in doing it publicly, without fear of someone judging my vulnerability. I’ve explored my spirituality more deeply without feeling dismissed. I love to decorate my body and space with new expressions of myself, trying them on like hats. It doesn’t always have to be profound. Sometimes it’s just wearing the weird earrings.
When people love us, they sometimes try to shape us—believing it’s for our own good. Parents do it. Partners do it. Friends do it. Influence is natural. But when we prioritize what seems “right” over what makes us unique, we lose something essential.
Differences will always rub up against each other in relationships. That’s inevitable. What matters isn’t sanding each other down into smoother, more convenient versions. What matters is loving someone with their edges intact.
Real acceptance isn’t about molding someone into your comfort zone. It’s about creating enough safety that both people can maintain their individuality.
I’ve always admired relationships where both people remain distinctly themselves—different, curious, continually surprised by each other. What a gift it would be to sit across from someone and never stop discovering them.
So here’s my advice: if you want to feel celebrated, admired, and deeply understood for who you are, don’t shrink yourself to fit someone else’s version of love. We accept the love we think we deserve. Define yours. Own it unapologetically. And trust that someone will one day look at you and think they’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
You might never stop loving them, but the love will change
I’ll leave you with this bittersweet promise—time passes, and grief, even when it feels immovable, will eventually soften.
Right after a breakup, it can feel impossible to ever get over that person. After loving someone for nine years, I felt like my entire identity was woven into his. For months, I hadn’t fully accepted that it was over. I told myself we’d find our way back like we always had. In some ways, that softened the grief—it let it roll out in stages instead of crashing down all at once.
But distance has a way of clarifying things. When we did speak and I could sense his emotional withdrawal, the rejection began to settle in my chest. He no longer felt like the person I was in love with, and our relationship didn’t feel familiar. Even if someone says what you want to hear, you can feel when their heart isn’t in it. And slowly, our bond began to loosen.
Of course, I still love him. But the love has changed. The sharpness has dulled. The urgency has softened.
Some mornings now, I wake up, and my first thought isn’t life without him—it’s just life: what I’m doing that day or my plans for the weekend. The world feels bigger than the loss.
Time is the only thing that delivers this shift. What feels inconceivable in the beginning can feel manageable six months later. And there is nothing more hopeful than witnessing your own capacity to heal—especially when it grows from a place that once felt completely barren.
We are more resilient than we think. Love may not disappear, but it evolves. And so do we.
