Cups & Curiosity

There’s something raw and almost sacred about the first few pages of a journal started in the midst of heartbreak. The ink feels heavier. The sentences come slower, or in a flood. Some days it’s just scribbles, or a single word: why. Other days, it’s a long letter I’ll never send.

I started journaling again after a recent heartbreak—not just the kind where things fizzle or fade, but the kind that leaves you breathless in the worst way. The kind where silence replaces laughter, where old routines become painful memories. I found myself reaching for my notebook not to make sense of it all—because honestly, heartbreak doesn’t always make sense—but to survive it.

My journal became a place where I could say everything I couldn’t say out loud. I wrote down memories, both the good ones and the ones that stung. I let myself be messy and irrational on paper. I wrote about anger, longing, embarrassment, and loneliness. I cursed. I cried. I wrote the same question over and over again just to see if it changed with time.

And slowly—very slowly—I began to see patterns. I noticed the moments I romanticized too much, the needs I silenced to keep the peace, the pieces of myself I started to lose while trying to hold someone else together. My journal gently reflected those things back to me, not with judgment, but with honesty.

Some entries were just lists:

• Things I miss
• Things I don’t miss
• Things I’m learning
• Things I hope for next time

Eventually, the heartbreak softened. The pages didn’t stop being emotional, but they stopped being desperate. I wrote more about what I was doing for myself. New recipes I tried. Walks I took. A song that didn’t hurt anymore. A dream I had that didn’t feature them.

Journaling didn’t erase the pain, but it gave it a container. It helped me stop carrying everything all the time. It reminded me that my voice—my story—doesn’t end just because a relationship did.

If you’re going through something similar, I gently encourage you to write. Don’t worry about it sounding profound or poetic. Let it be ugly, angry, confused, or completely numb. Let it be yours. And one day, you might look back and realize that these pages weren’t just about mourning what was lost—they were about rediscovering what still remains. You. Whole, healing, and still here.

Have you ever journaled through a heartbreak? What helped you find your way forward? I’d love to hear your story in the comments.