Hardly anyone dares to share their grief, but we all fall in love at some point, no matter where we come from or what accomplishments we carry on our shoulders. Love breaks barriers—the ones of age, of status, of the illusion that we’re safe from it. Because even the most successful man, the most prepared, or the one who brags about his armor, ends up handing over his heart and feeling each beat as a risk it might be the last. And all of us, without exception, go through heartbreak and pain. Some cry in silence, others shout their sorrow to the wind, and others hide in their work or their art. But in the end, that void left by goodbye is universal. It hurts the same for the young person experiencing their first heartbreak as it does for the veteran who thought they’d already learned not to fall. That shared experience unites us. It reminds us that, deep down, we are vulnerable—and we need to reclaim our courage.
The world is afraid of love, and that’s sad. No one dares to talk about heartbreak or share their experiences, because we all want to look strong, we all want to seem like the ones who win. But we confuse strength and winning with not suffering—or at least suffering less than the other person. But what if we’re confusing strength with coldness? What if the truly brave one isn’t the one who suffers the least, but the one who dared to feel the most? What if the one who takes the longest to heal isn’t weak—but simply the one who gave the most? For me, love isn’t about winning or losing. It’s about being brave. Letting your heart speak again. Because loving is an act of courage.
One day, I had to do something I never thought I would: I had to let go of someone I loved. It wasn’t a planned decision; it was more impulse than reason. But deep down, I knew it was the right choice. I had always thought the one who walks away is the coward. That giving up was for the weak. But now I understand that old phrase: that loving is also learning to let go. And I let go. Not because I stopped loving her, but because I understood that staying was destroying us both. I had to face my emotional dependency. That feeling that without her, I was completely alone. It was hard to accept. The idea of not having her hurt more than the reality of what I was living. But it all reached a breaking point. I realized that by letting her go, I had done her a favor—one I couldn’t understand at the time.
Soon after, she met someone else. Someone who could give her what I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t want to, but because distance was killing us, responsibilities were overwhelming me, and the circumstances weren’t in our favor. And even though it hurt—hurt so much—I learned to see it from another perspective: sometimes, truly loving someone means letting them find their path, even if that path doesn’t include you. In the end, everything in life is borrowed—nothing truly belongs to you.
Letting her go was hard. But nothing was harder than seeing her in someone else’s arms and not reaching out again. Disappearing from her life completely. Waiting for time and distance to erode what I felt. Swallowing the helplessness that passes through phases of anger. Having no one to say, “you’ll be okay,” no one to hug and cry with. Walking a quiet, invisible, lonely road. While everyone else went on with their lives, I could barely get out of bed. The saddest part? Deep down, no one noticed how much it hurt. I learned to swallow many things. To pretend I was fine when I wasn’t. To give advice I didn’t know how to follow myself. I learned to keep myself company. Those were terrible days—but they were real. Because in that silence, I learned the most valuable thing: to hold myself up and love myself.
There are so many types of breakups you don’t even know how to explain. One day everything’s fine—or at least it seems that way—and the next, it’s over. Out of nowhere, without warning, they tell you it’s done. And you don’t know what to do with all that emptiness hitting you at once. It’s like something was ripped from you that you didn’t even know was yours. You’re left with a thousand questions and no answers. And no matter how hard you try to understand, there’s no logic that makes it make sense.
In other cases, the emptiness comes in the lowest form: infidelity. In a world that increasingly glorifies cheating, to the point of romanticizing it without any empathy for what it means to someone who was genuinely committed—it breaks something deep inside you. Not just because of what they did, but because it shatters your idea of love, of trust, of yourself. You start wondering if it was all a lie, if you were blind. You look in the mirror and question your worth, as if something in you had failed. And no—it’s not just jealousy or anger. It’s that quiet pain that burrows deep, where we keep what hurts the most.
And we haven’t even talked about when you get replaced so quickly it seems like they had someone ready. Seeing that person with someone else, smiling like you never existed—it’s like dying a little inside. You wonder if you were ever truly special or just a placeholder until someone “better” came along. Even if you know that’s not true, it still hurts. Because the heart doesn’t reason. It just feels.
Sometimes you wait, hoping they’ll come back, write, say something. But they don’t. And that’s when the real grieving begins. Not for them—but for everything you imagined, for everything you thought would be that never was. It’s hard to accept that something ended when you still had so much to give. It’s like holding your arms full of love… and no longer having anyone to give it to.
And yes, you want to close yourself off. You don’t want to trust again. You don’t want to meet anyone. Because after being broken like that, you don’t love the same. You become more cautious, colder, more distant. Not because you’ve run out of love, but because you learned how much it hurts to lose it—or to have it unappreciated. It’s not fear of love… it’s fear of falling apart again. But even with all that, you keep going. At your own pace, with your silences, with your good days and your shitty ones. Because even if it doesn’t seem like it, you start to rebuild. Little by little. With what’s left. And one day, without realizing it, you’ll catch yourself laughing—truly laughing. Without guilt. Without hidden sadness. And maybe, just maybe… you’ll believe in it all again.
One day, without meaning to, someone new shows up. And you start talking. You share things you once only said to that other person. You laugh about similar stuff, talk about familiar things, open up little by little. But it doesn’t feel the same. It’s not better or worse… just different. And that’s when you realize something important: you’re not thinking about the past as much anymore. Not because you forgot—but because it doesn’t hurt the same. That person who once meant everything no longer occupies the center of it all. And even if this new experience doesn’t sweep you off your feet, it doesn’t weigh you down either. It doesn’t suffocate you. It doesn’t drag ghosts with it. It’s new. Clean. Imperfect. But yours.
Because this time, you’re not looking for someone to fix the broken pieces left by someone else. You’ve realized that’s not fair—or healthy. No one should carry the shards you never learned to pick up. Love shouldn’t begin as a rescue. It should start in the present, not in the wound. You’ve learned that healing is your responsibility, and no one else’s. Whoever comes next should find you in the middle of your own growth, not asking to be saved. Because real love isn’t the one that rescues you—it’s the one that walks beside you while you learn to stand on your own.
Sometimes, you notice there’s still healing to do when anxiety shows up if they don’t reply quickly, when insecurity creeps in if they don’t text first, when you feel the need to please, to not mess it up, to not be abandoned again. And then you realize you’re still caught in your own wounds. You become emotionally dependent without meaning to. You seek attention like affection is a lifeline. And any silence, any delay, any shift in tone—feels like a threat. That’s when you know you’re not ready yet. There’s still a lot to sort out inside. What you went through left deeper marks than you thought. And even though it feels like a prison, it’s actually the best opportunity to get to know yourself.
And with time, you start seeing things clearly. You stop believing love equals heartbreak. You start feeling healthy—and wanting something healthy. And you no longer care how long it takes, because you understand your path is different. It’s special. Once you realize that love isn’t about dependency, or holding on, or fearing loss. Real love isn’t about possession, ego games, or control. It’s presence. It’s a daily choice. It’s calm—and also fire. It’s being able to be yourself without fear or masks.
If you asked me if I believe in true love, my answer will always be yes. Without sugarcoating it. Love—the real kind—holds nothing back. It gives everything without feeling like it’s losing anything. It’s passion, yes—but also friendship. It’s tenderness. It’s knowing you can cry without being judged, laugh without being measured, mess up without being abandoned. It’s someone who doesn’t complete you—but amplifies you. Someone who doesn’t rescue you—but walks beside you. And once you understand that, you stop accepting anything less. Because love isn’t just a feeling—it’s a way of living. And when you love again, let it be with your whole self. Because if it’s not true, it’s not worth it.
Because in the end, that’s what this is all about: loving, feeling like you’ve lost something, and daring to try again. Giving yourself without fear, breaking in the process, and rebuilding with more truth. There’s no manual. No guarantees. But every stage leaves something: a more honest version of who you are.
Love makes you feel alive. Loss teaches you what truly matters. And starting over—even if it scares you—is the bravest act of all.
Love, loss… and all over again.
Because as long as we’re still breathing, there will always be a part of us ready to try one more time. Not out of need—but out of conviction. Not to return to the past—but to honor who we’ve become.
English 
Spanish