I’m going to tell you about the time I almost tapped out of the dating game entirely. You know that rom-com trope where the protagonist runs through a rainstorm after a breakup, mascara streaming, leaving a shoe in a gutter? Picture that, but swap the rain for Houston humidity, and instead of a glamourous breakup, it was me sobbing into a half-eaten elote in my abuela’s backyard. Welcome to my mid-twenties: dramatic, messy, and filled with lessons I didn’t even ask for.

But before we get there, let me set the stage.

Love, or Something Like It

I met him (let’s call him Carlos, not because it’s his real name but because it just fits his energy) during happy hour at a taco truck that also sold margarita popsicles. A man who orders carnitas and pays for your guac? Swoon. Carlos had it all—or so I thought. Charming smile, a job that didn’t make him miserable, and this way of saying, “Ileana,” that made the double ‘L’ sound like music. My Cuban-Mexican family even liked him—and trust me, that’s no small feat.

We were good for a while. The kind of good that tricks you into believing you’ve found the one. I mean, we planned trips! We danced to salsa at family weddings. He even tolerated my obsession with analyzing the plot holes in every season of Jane the Virgin. But, one awkward dinner later, I found myself reeling from the six most devastating words I’d ever heard: “I think we want different things.”

Cue the record scratch. Different things? Like pineapple on pizza (a crime, by the way)? Or did he mean life stuff? Turns out, it was the latter. Carlos wanted to move to a different city—for a “fresh start.” I wanted to stay in Houston, where my family, my freelance work, and my favorite tacos lived. Just like that, we were over. And I didn’t take it well.

The Melt-Down Phase

Every breakup has its phases. Mine started approximately 45 minutes post-breakup, when I found myself aimlessly walking through H-E-B at 10 p.m., filling my cart with a random mix of items: jalapeño lime chips (for crying into), a 12-pack of Topo Chico (hydration?), and a plant I was convinced I could take care of (spoiler: I couldn’t). Friends, a Houston grocery store is no place for emotional chaos, but it’s a solid metaphor for where my heart was then: confused, messy, overpriced.

For weeks, I operated on autopilot. I worked, I cried in the car while listening to Selena’s "Amor Prohibido,” and I opened every text hoping it might be Carlos changing his mind. (It wasn’t.)

The worst part? My Tía Marta, the family matchmaker, would regularly hit me with pity-filled one-liners like, “Mija, maybe you were just too headstrong. Men like something softer.” I'm sorry, but I drew the line at molding myself like Play-Doh for someone who wasn’t smart enough to appreciate a woman with opinions and a Topo addiction. Still, that didn’t mean the rejection didn’t sting. My confidence? Shredded like the queso fresco on my abuela’s best enchiladas.

That was the moment I thought I might quit altogether—stop dating, stop hoping. Throw the whole corazón thing in the trash. But, as I learned, we’re tougher than we think when things get complicated.

Survival Mode: Baby Steps Back Into Me

Here’s where this story takes a turn for the better. Survival mode wasn’t a dramatic movie montage—it wasn’t salsa dancing at a club or some steamy rebound with a guy who owned three leather jackets. It was baby steps. Un-glamorous, sometimes-awkward baby steps.

  1. Step One: Embrace the Sad Days.
    I didn’t try to force my feelings into submission. My family taught me early: You need to feel to heal. So, I let myself have crying fits over bad Telemundo soap operas. I even wrote angry poems about Carlos and his “fresh start” that were so bad I almost deleted them immediately. (Almost.)

  2. Step Two: Get Comfortable With Alone Time.
    I started going out by myself. For me, this looked like solo grocery runs without tearing up or hitting tiny taco stands I’d been too embarrassed to try when Carlos was around. I learned the joy of enjoying a dirty horchata and inhaling birria tacos in my car with no witnesses. Date nights with myself? Underrated.

  3. Step Three: Find Your People.
    My friends truly came through—pulling me out of my sweatpants and dragging me to karaoke nights, where belting out Romeo Santos songs healed something primal in me. They let me rant about Carlos with zero judgment but didn’t let me dwell too long in my pity party. Friends like that are worth their weight in queso fundido.

There’s nothing groundbreaking here, but it worked. Each small action added up until, eventually, I woke up one day and realized I wasn’t just surviving. I was thriving—or at least getting close to it.

So, What’s the Lesson?

Here’s what I know now that I didn’t back then: There’s no fast track through heartbreak. Sure, people will tell you to hit the gym, or start meditating, or take a pottery class because Patrick Swayze made it look sexy in Ghost. All of that is fine, but healing isn’t linear, and it certainly isn’t Insta-perfect. Sometimes it looks like crying so hard your earrings fall off. Sometimes it’s realizing you deserve softness without compromising your strength.

Losing Carlos wasn’t just about losing a relationship; it was about confronting the ideas I had built around love, stability, and what I thought made me “enough.” And spoiler: I already was enough, even with my imperfections, my love of overly spicy tacos, and my occasional tendency to self-sabotage my houseplants. To be honest, Carlos walking away wasn’t the most devastating loss—it was the wake-up call I needed to redefine what I actually wanted and deserved.

Moving Forward, One Elote At a Time

These days, I’m not swearing off love like I thought I might back when Carlos made his exit. I’m open. But first, I’m focused on building a relationship with someone else—me. You’ll find me at markets, on my couch flipping through Sandra Cisneros books, or in line for tres leches at my favorite bakery. And if you’re wondering, yes, I still occasionally cry to Selena songs—but it’s more of a happy, reflective cry of gratitude than a throwback to Grocery-Aisle Breakdown Ileana.

So, for anyone stuck in that post-heartbreak haze, here’s the real takeaway: You’ll be okay. Not in a fake, cheery “just think positive” way, but in a way where every day feels a little lighter. Go ahead, eat the tacos, buy the plant (even if it dies), and cry if you need to. Then wake up, shake it off, and trust that something better—not someone better, but something better—is on its way. You’ve got this, one messy bite of life at a time.