Beautifully Broken: Rebuilding Me

We’ve all experienced breakups. Some may have happened long ago—high school, college, early adulthood. But there’s something especially heartbreaking about a breakup that comes after years—after strong family bonds, shared history, and children. Years of beautiful moments… and hard ones you both survived.

When you realize the future you imagined—growing old with your person—is no longer possible, and the idea of starting over feels physically nauseating, you begin to question everything.

What did I do so wrong? What’s wrong with me? Am I not good enough? Not pretty enough? How could they just give me up like that? Did they ever really love me?

Each question hits like a jab to the chest. You feel completely and utterly shattered. And you start to wonder how anyone could look at you and not see someone who’s totally broken.

You stop eating. Your hair starts falling out. You lose weight—not intentionally, but maybe it’s the only side effect you don’t mind. You stop showing emotion—not because you don’t feel anything, but because you’re afraid any emotion might become tears… and there are little eyes watching.

You wake up. You go through the motions. You check the boxes because you have to, not because you feel anything from them. Your self-worth is gone. But your responsibilities aren’t.

At this point in my life, I had already been going to therapy regularly for two years. And I really believe those years gave me just enough tools to not completely fall apart. I told my therapist, “My heart feels like a piñata someone cracked wide open—just scattered pieces of confetti. How does that ever get put back together?”

We were focused on safety, on making sure I could function, but my only concern was my little person. That became my purpose.

I cried in the shower so they wouldn’t see. And if they did see, I’d fake an injury—just to redirect. They’d tend to me so sweetly, which only made it worse… because I was lying. I was lying to my child.

Outside of that, I had no space or capacity for rebuilding my self-worth. I was leaning into faith, leaning on the practices I’d started in therapy. But it wasn’t enough to touch how I felt about myself.

When something like this happens, your family and girlfriends are the first to rally. “Girl, you’ve got this.” “They’re going to regret this.” “You’re amazing—you deserve someone who treats you like it.”

As kind and supportive as those words are—and as much as I already knew what they were going to say—it felt a little like asking if a dress looks good on you when you know it doesn’t… and they still say, “You look incredible.”

It’s meant with love, and you appreciate it deeply. But it doesn’t really move the needle on your self-worth.

Still, I was so grateful for every single moment, every text, every call, every teary-eyed conversation that reminded me I wasn’t alone. They held space for me when I couldn’t hold it for myself. They reminded me of parts of me I couldn’t see anymore—strong, beautiful, worthy—even if I didn’t believe it at the time.

Sometimes I would nod and smile, but inside I felt completely hollow. Because here’s the truth: it’s hard to absorb love or affirmation when your whole identity has cracked wide open.

I was still deep in survival mode. Still in love with my person. Still hopelessly clinging to any sign that maybe—just maybe—they’d want me back. And every lack of communication felt like another layer of rejection.

I didn’t have confidence. I didn’t have belief in myself. But I did have this one surprising thread of self-worth—something I hadn’t expected.

I looked in the mirror and, for the first time in my life, I liked what I saw. I was not just strong but now lean. I felt… good physically.

Note: I don’t recommend or endorse this kind of weight loss. It came from stress and trauma. The hair loss and other side effects have taken far longer to heal. I’m simply being honest—this was the one thing I liked about myself in that season.

I would crack a joke and say, “My world is falling apart… but I look amazing naked.” And surprisingly, I would laugh. It felt like a moment of real joy. And that small moment planted something in me—something I could build from.

Another support system that helped was my gym family. I’ve been part of the early morning crew for years, and we always look out for each other. Even friends I didn’t see often were checking in once they found out what I was going through.

They sent motivational videos. They let me cry after workouts without making me feel weird. They gave me advice from their own lives, even using up their warmup or recovery time just to pour into me. Some would even check in during the day for “head-heart” check-ins—and that meant everything.

When people care about you that much, it reminds you that you’re worth caring about. It gave me something to stand on. And once I had a little footing, I didn’t always want to be the center of the conversation anymore. Because it’s exhausting.

It felt good to shift the focus and ask them about their lives. To support them. To offer something—even if it was just friendship, advice, or a laugh.

And that… gave me more self-worth. Because even in the thick of it, I still had something to offer. But I was still on that emotional roller coaster. Still hurting. Still wanting my person back.

One day, after expressing that pain to a friend, they sent me an Instagram quote that hit me hard:

“If you spend your time chasing butterflies, they’ll fly away. But if you spend your time making a beautiful garden, the butterflies will come to you. When you focus on improving yourself, everything you want will come to you. We attract based on who we are, not what we want. Don’t chase—attract.”

I brought it to therapy.

I told her, “I love this quote. It’s beautiful. But… how do you make a garden when your heart is in pieces?”

She asked me if I’d ever heard of Kintsugi. I hadn’t.

She explained that it’s a Japanese art of repairing broken pottery—usually with gold or silver lacquer—making the cracks not only visible, but beautiful. It’s a way of honoring the brokenness. Of making the damage part of the design. Of celebrating the fact that it broke… and was put back together.

I don’t know why that resonated with me so deeply—but it did.

It was the first time someone gave me language for what I was feeling.

Because maybe I am broken. Maybe I am still shattered.

But maybe, someday, the pieces will be held together with gold. Maybe what I’ve survived will be the most beautiful part of me.

I’m still figuring it out. Still healing. Still putting the pieces back together.

But I don’t see those pieces the same way anymore. They’re not something to be ashamed of. They’re part of my story.

And if you’re in that place right now, where everything feels shattered, I just want you to know:

You are not too broken to be loved. You are not stuck. There is still beauty in you. More than that—there is strength.

And one day, those cracks might just be the thing that makes you the most valuable.