I’ll never forget the night I stared at a blank Word document for what felt like an eternity. I was perched at the little writing desk in my Montreal apartment—mug of lukewarm tea at my side, the glow of city lights spilling through my window. My editor had sent me a deceptively simple assignment: “Write about your biggest heartbreak.” A straightforward topic, sure. But as I typed the title, immediately deleting it (and then retyping it again), I felt a knot form in my stomach. How do you put heartache into words that sound meaningful without veering into melodrama? How do you make your pain relatable without falling into clichés? Basically: how do you write the hardest thing you’ve ever written?

If writing about heartbreak is tough, reliving it is worse. But in the end, the process taught me more than I could have imagined—not just about relationships but about myself. And yes, it also taught me a thing or two about how to craft a story when the subject hits a little too close to home.

The Blank Page and the Silent Scream

Let’s start with the obvious: staring at a blank document when faced with the daunting task of personal reflection feels like being ghosted by your own creativity. There’s just... nothing. No opening line, no roadmap, no clue how to begin. I’d spent that night listening to Coeur de pirate (arguably not the best idea—it just feeds the spiral), digging into tiramisu ice cream, and hoping that if I stared long enough, the words would magically materialize.

But here’s the thing: writing about heartbreak is in itself a heartbreak. You’re breaking open a part of yourself you’d rather keep hidden. And just like a breakup text you wish you’d worded better, the first draft is going to be sloppy. It’s going to be messy. And maybe that’s exactly the point.

By 2 a.m., with crumbs from a croissant I shouldn’t have eaten sitting on my keyboard, I realized the problem wasn’t just what I wanted to say—it was how to say it. Should I write like the sassy, wine-drinking rom-com best friend who tells you, “Ugh, he wasn’t even cute”? Or should I channel the emotional depth of a French arthouse film where everyone stares tragically at rain-streaked windows? My solution: write something in between. Heartache is absurd and profound. That’s its magic—and its cruelty.

Writing from the Wreckage

Eventually, I started with a story—a simple one. About the time I sat alone at a café in Paris after getting a breakup call. No dramatic shouting or tears in the street (though, yes, I was wearing a striped shirt and beret because sometimes clichés exist for a reason). It was a breakup I never saw coming, and as I sipped a cappuccino that suddenly tasted bitter, I remember feeling like the smallest person in the largest city.

When you’re writing about heartbreak—or going through it—it’s tempting to focus solely on the wreckage. The “How dare he!” or “I should’ve known better” dialogue loops that play on repeat in your brain. But here’s the thing about breakups: they don’t just break things; they clear space for something new. Writing forces you to dig through the shattered pieces and find those tiny glimmers of truth you missed the first time. And maybe, just maybe, it teaches you to laugh at the absurdity of it all: the mismatched coffee mugs you fought over, the Spotify playlists that suddenly became booby traps, the way mutual friends suddenly start treating you like a breakable object.

Here’s a piece of advice I wish someone had told me earlier: if you’re going to write about heartbreak—or navigate it, for that matter—do what storytellers do. Ask yourself, “What’s the bigger picture?” Because let me tell you, in the middle of my heartbreak, I certainly wasn’t thinking about how it would shape me or teach me anything. But guess what? It did.

Heartbreak’s Unexpected Gifts

Strangely enough, writing this article ended up healing me more than any pint of ice cream ever could (though chocolate chip cookie dough deserves an honorable mention). Why? It forced me to get real, to sift through the pain and anger without the comfort of denial.

Here’s what I learned:

  • Heartbreak is humbling. It doesn’t matter if you speak two languages or can quote Michel Tremblay from memory—when you’re heartbroken, you’re just as messy and human as everyone else. And admitting that is freeing.
  • Perspective takes time. They say writing is rewriting, and healing works the same way. My first draft of that heartbreak essay was all venom and self-pity. It wasn’t until I stepped back, rereading it weeks later, that I finally understood my heartbreak wasn’t only about loss—it was about growth.
  • Humor saves you. If you can’t laugh, even a little, at the absurdities of love, life, or your tendency to cry every time you hear Adele's “Someone Like You,” then you’re missing the silver lining. Heartbreak loves to take itself seriously—don’t always let it.

The Takeaway: Feel It, Write It, Let It Go

If writing about heartbreak taught me anything, it’s that you can’t skirt around the edges of your feelings. You have to go deep—like, buried treasure at the bottom of the ocean deep—and get comfortable there for a while. But once you’ve sifted through the wreckage, you might just find something you didn’t expect: clarity, humor, strength.

And let’s be honest, owning your story (or at least the parts you can) feels badass. Whether it’s through writing, venting with friends, or shouting into the void while hiking on Mont Royal, heartbreak is an experience that demands a release. Holding it inside will only leave you with a tangled mess of “what-ifs.” And who wants that?

So, to anyone going through a breakup or wrestling with the hardest story they’ve ever told, here’s my advice: give yourself permission to be messy, to laugh, to scream into a pillow if you must. Whether you're putting your pain into words or simply surviving it day by day, remember this—it won’t last forever.

One day, you’ll look back on the moment that tested you most, and you’ll smile. Not just at how far you’ve come, but at the fact that you dared to sit with the silence, to sift through the chaos, and ultimately, to make sense of it all. That’s the power of storytelling—and heartbreak.