The hardest piece I’ve ever written didn’t start with a blank page. It started with a blank heart, freshly pulled from the ruins of a breakup so seismic it could have moved the marshlands back home in Charleston. When my editor assigned me a story about navigating heartbreak—a topic I thought I was well-equipped to tackle as a blissfully single lady with a solid Spotify breakup playlist—I had no idea the challenge would come from writing it as someone sitting smack dab in the middle of their own hurricane of tears, Tupperware containers of takeout, and a very betrayed houseplant that no longer saw the light of my affection.

But here’s the thing about heartbreak—it’s the uninvited guest who camps out on your couch, eats your snacks, and somehow convinces you that every text notification might be them. Writing about it while actively marinating in your own heartache feels a lot like scrubbing a jellyfish sting while you’re still standing knee-deep in the swarm. Let me tell you, dear reader, turning personal ruin into something relatable, empowering, and maybe even a little funny is just the kind of alchemy no MFA program truly prepares you for.

So, here’s how I found myself digging through the rubble for lessons, laughs, and a way to stitch my experience into words worth sharing.

1. Breakups Are Like Gumbo (Bear With Me)

Let me explain. Growing up in Charleston, I learned that gumbo isn’t just food; it’s an act of patience, improvisation, and resilience. You start with what you’ve got—even if today’s “what you’ve got” is a soul scraped raw by rejection—and you build from there. You might over-season it at first (hello, regret text drafted at 2 a.m.), or let it boil over because you weren’t paying attention (scrolling through old photos—big mistake). But over time, you learn how to stir that pot with care. You find the right ingredients to flavor your days again.

Writing about that process brought me back to the gumbo pot metaphor because, much like heartbreak, gumbo demands effort. Some days you’re tossing in joy, other days it’s just the leftovers of your grief. But eventually, it starts tasting better—and you start feeling better.

2. Honesty Hurts—And Heals

When my editor—supportive as she is—suggested I write personally, I groaned. Sharing the rawness of your life when it still feels like an open wound is terrifying. But I also knew that dressing up heartbreak in metaphor or theory wouldn’t help my readers or me. So, I got honest. Painfully honest.

I wrote about the night when I deleted his number, even though I had it memorized. I wrote about the moment I realized the old jazz albums he left behind weren’t mine to listen to anymore—not because he asked, but because I couldn’t without unraveling. I wrote about how, in one particularly awful moment, I Googled “how long until a breakup stops hurting,” as though there were some universal countdown clock I’d failed to start.

And somewhere in that messy honesty, things began to shift. Writing became less a reminder of my pain and more a reminder of my resilience. Sharing those moments made them smaller, lighter—easier to carry.

3. No One Cares About Your Highlight Reel

If you’ve ever read a bad breakup article, you know the ones I’m talking about: “I got dumped, then ran a marathon, wrote a novel, and bought a puppy, all in three months!” Don’t get me wrong—I love a good glow-up story as much as the next person. But pretending that heartbreak can be solved with a new hobby or Insta-worthy distraction? It’s a disservice.

So, I kept it real. I wrote about the knock-down, drag-out days where success was brushing my teeth and finishing one chapter of a dog-eared book. I didn’t pretend to have answers or a magical five-step solution to getting over it (we all know better than that). What I did have was a reminder: It’s okay to feel shattered. It’s okay to stop chasing perfection and just let yourself be.

And you know what? Turns out people don’t want your highlight reel—they want your highlights and your shadows. They want something to hold onto when they’re struggling, too. That’s what I gave them.

4. Humor Is a Love Language (Even in Heartbreak)

I once read that “tragedy plus time equals comedy.” I’d argue that sometimes all you have is tragedy, and you have to squint real hard to find the funny. Like trying to quietly ugly cry in the frozen food aisle because the only organic waffles left were your ex’s favorite. Or realizing mid-sob-session that your wardrobe is packed with their old hoodies, prompting a full Marie Kondo session with your emotions.

Infusing the piece with humor was how I survived it—and how my readers found their way through it, too. Because even in the heaviest moments, there’s an absurdity to heartbreak that deserves to be celebrated. Crying over popcorn chicken on your couch for two hours? Laugh at yourself, and then give yourself some grace. You’re human. You’re going to be fine.

5. A Love Letter to Yourself

Here’s the part that surprised me most: writing about heartbreak turned out to be less about my ex (thank goodness) and more about falling back in love with myself. Through the process of narrating my pain, I uncovered new truths about who I was and what I wanted.

I remembered the girl who danced barefoot in her grandmother’s kitchen to the hum of a stand mixer and gospel music, the one who believed love didn’t have to be easy—just true. The one who spent Saturdays reading James Baldwin and Sundays spritzing the collards with vinegar in the backyard with her mom. Writing the piece became a declaration: I am more than my heartbreak. I am more than my grief. I am someone worth knowing, worth loving.

What started as the hardest piece I’d ever written turned into an act of reclamation—not just of my voice as a writer, but of myself as a woman.

Final Thoughts: When the Page Mirrors Your Heart

Writing is work, yes, but sometimes it’s also salvation. Sitting down to write about heartbreak didn’t fix me—it didn’t stitch up old fissures or wipe out the memories—but it gave me a path forward. It helped me wade through the sadness and find a sturdy footing.

And if heartbreak is something you’re navigating right now, let me tell you what I discovered along the way: You don’t have to figure it all out today. You don’t have to churn tragedy into glory overnight. Instead, start small. Stir the pot. Tell the truth—if only to yourself. And when the pain subsides just enough, sprinkle in a little humor. If you can laugh—even at life’s most brutal punchlines—you’ll be okay.

So go on. Write your worst days into something beautiful. Or just wait until the clouds clear. Either way, you’re not alone, even if it feels like it sometimes. And who knows? Maybe one day, your hardest piece will turn out to be your proudest.