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Today, I woke up happy. It was startling.

I have been whipsawed for months in the aftermath of a relationship that broke my heart and sent me reeling.

It is not as if I have never experienced heartache and loss; these are not new emotions in the fabric of me. Loss of loved ones, loss of a 20-plus year marriage, loss of treasured pets and friendships and possessions of sentimental value.

I am not new to grief. In fact, many of us can often see potential loss in the distance: the knowledge that pets live short lives, that illnesses can pop up, that friendships change with time and distance, that things can be lost or broken, and that a once vibrant relationship can give way to the slow drip of disconnection.

So, when these losses finally materialize, the grief follows (of course) but there is tiny part of us that was prepared, that felt it coming, that was braced for impact.

This heartache was different though. Sharper. More shocking. A sucker punch.

It was like the life-altering moment when another car runs a red light and hits you broadside. Like an emotional concussion. On the outside, I had no bruises. But everything inside felt shaken…off-balance. The smooth pages of my thoughts and anticipated future unfolding suddenly wrinkled and curled uncontrollably. Even my breath hurt in my chest, a pain with the intensity of internal paper cuts.

What happened? I will never know for sure. This was, I thought, “my person.” We had met through friends, had an instant affinity for one another, and dated briefly. However, we were not ready for each other in a romantic sense (my diagnosis). We settled into a warm friendship that lasted for years and developed over funny texts, sporadic visits, and spontaneous heart-to-heart chats about life, relationships, and parenting.

We did favors for each other, gave advice, and were each other’s casual “plus one” for events that required an easy companion. The original chemistry finally boiled over at a time when we were both frustrated and commiserating over the demise of other romances. Finally, it seemed, we arrived at the place where authentic friendship and the spark of attraction intersected.

The next few years were a whirlwind of socializing as a “real” couple, bursts of travel adventures, and quiet times together. It did not feel necessary to pin down the exact direction of our lives. As long as we were together on the journey it seemed so unimportant which road we would take. We were special. We were rare. I was living and loving with my heart wide open, secure in the knowledge that we were, as he said to me so many times, playing “the long game.”

Then it collapsed. The proverbial record scratch. The sudden avalanche. It was a busy summer full of stress that became a personal crisis, for him. He numbed himself and pushed me away. I was sympathetic; I thought it was just a rough patch that we would look back on years later and remark in gratitude, “Well, that sucked. But we got past it.”

But no. It ended in his kitchen with the words, “I’m dead inside. I don’t love you. I want to be alone.”

I cried every day for a long time. I felt raw and messy and unhinged, which was completely out of character for me. I woke up at 3 a.m. constantly, head and heart racing. I know, objectively, that we must allow ourselves to feel grief in order to pass through it—we cannot stuff it down or avoid it. It will not go away if it is ignored. But the physicality of it was exhausting, and not being able to sleep certainly exacerbated that part.

It was the cruelty of it that hurt the most though. The sudden death of the emotional safety I had basked in. The warmth of his gaze had fed me, and I had poured out love in return. I trusted that no topic would be off-limits for us. But here it was. No discussion about the possibility for space, for transition back to the friendship, for any shred of a redefined connection.

Finally, today, I woke up happy. How? It sounds like the flip of a light switch. But not exactly.

It has happened other times. Today is simply the acknowledgment that it is not an accident or an anomaly. It was the slow and subtle culmination of choosing joy in small ways, over time. When my children were small, they would complain about being “bored,” to which I would respond, emphatically, “Boredom is a choice.” My new addition to this philosophy is “Happiness is a choice.”

This is not the same as denial—pain will always reappear if it is pushed down, like a weird emotional version of Whac-a-Mole, but it can coexist with happiness. In between bouts of tears, I have hugged my dogs, bought myself flowers, opened a great bottle of wine for no reason, planned trips, spent time with friends, and allowed myself the luxury of days when I do not have to be productive. And I floundered. I considered dramatic actions, like cutting ties with a place I love because it is where we met. Thankfully, I did not.

What did I do, then? I deconstructed the pleasure I had felt in being with him. I broke the love I missed into little pieces that I could do with as I please or ask of others. I went on a trip that excited me, with a girlfriend. I assigned another male friend the task of occasionally texting me to tell me I’m pretty. I cooked for people, because it had been a significant part of my love language with him, and it felt good to experience their pleasure and appreciation.

I have been a listener for someone else’s pain. I realized our mutual friends will not desert me and made plans to spend time with them. I rediscovered my handiness around the house and the satisfaction of fixing things, instead of waiting for him to help me. I sat at a local pub that held memories of being with him and passed a wonderful afternoon being engaged in the camaraderie of strangers.

Is the pain gone? No, not really. And I can accept it may not leave completely. But now it is more like one of many pans on the stove of my days. It goes to a back burner. It sits on simmer. It doesn’t require all my attention. I have created space to make other dishes. I may go back on occasion and give it a stir; I may even taste it again. But I will return more easily to the new things I am creating at the front as the pleasure of possibility grows.

We cannot be happy all the time. I know this. It is actually the times of disappointment or sadness that highlight joy when it comes. But I believe seeking joy is a skill that can be practiced. Start small. Do not judge yourself by what brings happiness to others. There is no “right and wrong” when it comes to joy.

Trust yourself to find it. Then do it again.

~