The Moment I Didn’t Think I’d Survive
There comes a time in every person’s life when they face a challenge so unexpected it feels like the universe just tossed them into the deep end without so much as a pool noodle. For me, that moment happened on the cusp of what I'd thought would be a peaceful turning point—a milestone for reflection and gratitude. Instead, it felt like trying to navigate a stormy ocean in a leaky kayak.
Here’s the thing about me: I’m pretty good at surviving tough situations. I’m a kid of the Maine coastline, after all. I grew up wrestling lobster traps out of tangles, making friends with icy Atlantic winds, and learning to read the moods of the ocean long before I could drive a car. But it turns out, there’s a big difference between figuring out how to untangle yourself from seaweed and untangling yourself from the complicated dynamics of love and self-worth. The former leaves you salty but triumphant. The latter? Well, that’s a whole different beast.
I never thought I’d crumble during a bad breakup. And yet, there I was.
The Sudden Erosion of “Us”
When you grow up surrounded by the slow, methodical rhythms of nature, you come to expect that most things erode gradually—rock faces worn smooth by the tide, friendships that fade over years, feelings that dissolve like morning fog burning off under the sun. But my long-term relationship ending? That wasn’t erosion. It was an avalanche.
One Tuesday night, in the middle of prepping dinner, my partner dropped the kind of line that makes you suddenly forget how to chop an onion: “I think I need to leave.” Not leave for a walk or leave to clear their head, but leave. Full stop. For good. Adios, Bar Harbor. Adios, “us.” I can remember standing there, wooden spoon still in hand, staring at them as these words landed between us like boulders—unexpected, immovable, unwelcome.
Now, I know breakups aren’t exactly groundbreaking content. They happen to practically everyone. But here’s the kicker: I hadn’t realized how much of my identity was wrapped up in the relationship until its foundation crumbled like a sandcastle at high tide. My plans, my sense of stability, my optimism—out the metaphorical window. It was like watching a lighthouse extinguish just as the fog rolls in and the waves kick up.
Grief, But Make It Confusing
People tell you that grief comes in stages. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance—according to psychology’s greatest hits. But nobody tells you that you might experience them all before you’ve even managed to brush your teeth the next morning. Or that grief over a breakup doesn’t look as aesthetically cinematic as crying while walking barefoot on a beach in the rain (weirdly disappointing; I thought Maine would produce at least one Nicholas Sparks moment).
Instead, my grief was an endless string of awkward moments. Crying into the pillow only to realize I’d drooled on it too. Avoiding my ex’s favorite coffee shop like it was a bear trap. Rewatching nature documentaries just to feel “close” to David Attenborough’s voice of reason.
One moment stands out: a kindly older woman saw me looking forlorn in the frozen foods aisle and offered me unsolicited advice. “Honey,” she said, plopping a box of frozen peas into her cart, “you can’t sulk forever. Get yourself a hobby or something.” I nodded like she was the Dalai Lama. What else can you do but accept wisdom dished out next to the frozen broccoli?
Building Back One Pebble at a Time
When nature takes a hit—a hurricane scatters a shoreline or a forest fire scorches the land—the rebuilding process is never immediate. But here’s the magical part: things do start to come back. That scrappy patch of green moss re-anchors itself on a chunk of granite. Saplings pierce through the ash. Resilience wins.
Looking back, that’s exactly what happened to my heart. I just didn’t see it at the time.
First, I had to get rid of the ghost that my ex had left behind—figuratively, of course. That meant not letting myself spiral into revisiting old photos or replaying every “what if” scenario as if I was combing through washed-up debris. Some days, that meant resolving to delete old text threads. Other days, it meant dragging myself out of bed to hike a familiar trail my ex had never been on so I could claim the space as mine. (Take that, emotional baggage. This mountain belongs to me.)
More importantly, I had to stop treating the breakup as evidence of failure. Relationships aren’t ruined ecosystems. Sometimes they just end. And endings? They can hurt like hell, but they also make space for new beginnings. What I finally realized is that love, like the coastline, is shaped by change. It’s dynamic, not static. People grow. Circumstances shift. Trying to cling to what once was is about as useful as trying to glue a seashell back together after it’s shattered.
Nature’s Weirdly Accurate Lessons on Healing
Oddly, it was Maine’s cliffs and tide pools that gave me a sense of clarity during my post-breakup whirlwind. Here are a few lessons I figured out—the kind nature already knows, which helped me pick up the pieces and move forward:
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The Tides Always Turn
Feelings of heartbreak can feel endless, like being stuck mid-winter during one of Maine’s never-ending Nor’easters. But pain, like tides, ebbs and flows. If you keep showing up for yourself during the harder moments, eventually, the emotional surge subsides. -
Change Is Both Necessary and Beautiful
Coastal landscapes evolve over centuries. And, while we mourn sudden losses in the moment (that fallen tree, that hollowed-out shell of “what was”), change is necessary for growth. Whether that growth is emotional or ecological, it’s how we keep moving forward. -
Know Yourself Beyond the Pairing
A singular lighthouse, standing alone—sturdy, functional, unwavering. That’s how I had to learn to see myself. It required reconnecting to my roots: journaling by the ocean, taking solitary hikes, researching relationships in Mary Oliver poems. I discovered that I wasn’t a half looking for a whole; I was already whole, though I’d momentarily forgotten it. -
Find the Humor in it All
My messy healing—snack binges, failed pep talks, face masks gone awry—taught me not to take myself so seriously. Sometimes you’re the majestic osprey, lodging fish into your nest, and sometimes you’re an awkward puffin wobbling your way off a cliff. Both are valid.
The Dawn After the Storm
I won’t say that moving on from that breakup made me some sort of Zen goddess. There are still pangs when I pass that coffee shop or see someone wearing the same flannel my ex used to wear (look, we’re a small town; everyone has the same flannel). But what I will say is this: breaking didn’t destroy me.
Just like the rocky shores where I grew up, I too have cracks and jagged edges. And just like those shores, I’ve adapted to the erosion and the rebuilding. The toughest moments didn’t ruin me—if anything, they refined me. They cleared space for something fresher, stronger, more vibrant to grow where “forever” once stood.
So, if you ever find yourself wrecked by change, take it from this girl who thought she wouldn’t survive being dropped in the deep end of heartache: you’re stronger than you think. Borrow a little wisdom from the tides. Adjust. Swim. And when you're ready, start rebuilding—pebble by pebble—until you’re standing on sturdy ground again.
