Lessons My Ex Taught Me (Against His Will)

“Southern Voices” is a reader-submitted platform. Today’s submission comes from our StyleBlueprint Associate Editor and Sponsored Content Manager, Brianna Goebel. If you have a story to tell, see our guidelines for submission here. We love to hear about your wildly wonderful, challenging, captivating (and sometimes Southern-centric) experiences!

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Lessons My Ex Taught Me (Against His Will)

I still remember the feeling. That sinking, twisting sensation everyone calls a “pit in your stomach,” except mine settled somewhere in my elbows — like a weird, electric hum under my skin.

“I think we should take a break,” he said, his eyes filling with tears.

I just stared. Nothing made sense. A week ago, we were talking about going out to look at rings. A week ago, forever felt like a guarantee. What had changed?

I sat on my bed, waiting for the moment when it would start to make sense. It never did. Instead, I cried. And when I wasn’t crying, I was staring at the ceiling, playing our final conversation on a loop, like maybe I could rewind time if I replayed it enough.

How was I supposed to explain this to everyone? My family. My friends. Why did it feel so embarrassing?

For four days, I barely moved. I couldn’t eat without my stomach revolting, couldn’t sleep without dreaming of the way his voice cracked. On day five, I called my mom and asked if I could come home for a while. I didn’t trust myself to be alone with all of this darkness.

I texted him. Called him. Again and again. If I had known those were going to be our last words, I would have said something different. I would have fought harder. Not for us — for me.

I wish I had told him how much he broke me. I wish he had listened.

My mom says that my brother and I get this from her — the habit of giving away our best pieces in hopes of making someone else whole. She calls it our greatest weakness. And maybe she’s right. But when I think back on what was, without a doubt, the worst year of my life, I don’t just think about how much he took from me. I think about the strength it took to put myself back together.

And here’s the thing: I did.

I started seeing a new therapist. I started leaving the house. I started reconnecting with old friends. And I was (in the words of my therapist) “doing great.”

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For a long time, I carried my anger like a weighted blanket, convinced that letting it go meant failing the healing process. But over the course of the last few months, I’ve caught myself thinking of him without that familiar sting — without the fleeting, petty hope that he might step in front of an 18-wheeler. And if that’s not growth, I don’t know what is.

It’s strange to compare that version of me to who I am today. Now I go out with friends a few times a week (something he never would have “allowed”). I play trivia every Wednesday (something he would have complained about). I fly on airplanes (something he was terrified of doing). I foster cats (my cat never liked him, anyway).

He was my first real love. He was also my first real heartbreak.

And in a weird way, I think I have to thank him for that. Because losing him meant finding myself again — finding the people who have always loved me, waiting with open arms.

“The spark is back in your eyes.”

“You’re going out and doing things you never thought possible.”

“We’re so proud of you.”

And honestly? That might just be the greatest love story of all.

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So, wherever you are, thank you.

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