I’ve been heartbroken many times

by Vienda | 27 Nov 2024 | Love + Relationships

and there’s only one way to get through it (working title: how to heal after a breakup)

I still loved him when I left him. The last long-term relationship of mine. Even when the kisses dried up and our lips rasped past each other, more out of habit than affection. Even when the future was hopeless and we knew that our love is not enough.

The next time I nursed a broken heart, I did everything I could to move on.

It is 2021. I feel restless in my life and my body. A year of confinement to a small corner of the world is unfamiliar to me. I keep trying to convince myself that I chose this. That this is good for me. That it has already taught me so much. That this too will pass.

It is the last day of lockdown in the U.K. I will myself to go outside.

I pull on leggings and layers, Spring has not warmed this part of the world enough yet. I tie the laces on my trainers. No headphones, I want to hear the world today. I walk to the sea and turn left. Past crowds of people in their Sunday best and worst, past a cute skater girl in baggy jeans and a tie-dye t-shirt, past a dozen fish and chip stands, past new outdoor seating and eating spaces prepared for the new world that begins tomorrow.

The seafront feels like the day before a festival, the carousel being tested and repaired, the restaurants offering tents set up with carpets to provide outdoor dining options. I walk until my legs start to ache and the path ends at a hidden car park filled with mobile homes and caravans and gypsy girls in long skirts eating from metal plates sitting on the black asphalt.

They remind me of a decade past when I used to live like them and give me heady nostalgia for a life filled with the freedom of few cares beyond the next meal and the next place to sleep.

Here, I smile at them and wave, and spin around to return to the life I call my own.

There, I made a pact not to throw myself into love as easily next time.

Heartbreak feels like a slow unravelling.

The rhythm of your thoughts shifts; the things that once made sense no longer do.

It’s disorienting, like trying to find your footing on unsteady ground. And while it’s tempting to escape — to distract yourself with noise, busyness, or fleeting moments of comfort — the truth is, heartbreak doesn’t let you run.

The only way out is through.

And the only way through is this: to take all the love, care, and thought you poured into someone else and pour it back into yourself.

Guess, for a moment, how much of yourself you gave away.

How your thoughts revolved around their needs, their dreams, their happiness. How you moulded parts of your life to fit theirs, sometimes without even noticing. It’s so easy to lose yourself in another person, to blur the lines between where you end and they begin.

And when it ends, and those ties are severed, you’re left untethered — adrift, searching for the pieces of yourself you gave away.

The only way to untangle yourself from that is to take all that focus, all that love, all that energy, and pour it back into you. Not in fragments, but wholly, deliberately, and with the same intensity you once reserved for them.

What dreams of your own need championing? What parts of your happiness have gone ignored? What would it look like to make yourself the centre of your world again?

Start there, and rebuild.

Start with the essentials.

Heartbreak is heavy, and it takes a toll on the body as much as the soul. Sleep when you can. Nourish yourself, even if all you can manage are small, simple meals. Let your body move, whether that’s walking aimlessly until the ache subsides or finding a quiet space to stretch and feel your breath steadying. These small acts may not feel profound, but they are the roots of healing — tender reminders to yourself that you are worth tending to.

Turn inward.

Heartbreak thrives on loops — the endless replay of what was said, what wasn’t, what could have been. Rather than fighting these thoughts, give your mind something else to hold. Learn something new. Return to something old you loved but abandoned. Write, even if the words don’t make sense. Read stories that inspire you. Let your curiosity lead you, gently coaxing your attention away from the wound and towards possibility.

Nurture your heart.

Heartbreak offers renewal. Reconnect with the parts of your life that aren’t tied to what you’ve lost. Seek out the people who see you, the ones who remind you of who you were before. Laugh with them, even if it feels strained at first. If you’re lucky enough to have someone who will simply sit beside you in silence, let them. If you don’t, find small moments of connection elsewhere — a conversation with a kind stranger, a shared glance with someone who understands. These moments, however fleeting, are reminders that the world hasn’t stopped spinning and that it still holds beauty for you.

There isn’t a quick fix. Healing from heartbreak is an act of patience and devotion. Some days, you’ll feel strong — alive, even — and others will pull you back under. Every time you choose to redirect your love inward, you’re rebuilding. Slowly, quietly, but undeniably.

And one day, without even realising it, you’ll notice that the ache has softened.

You’ll look around at the life you’ve been creating and see something remarkable: a version of yourself who is not only whole but expansive. A self who knows how to love deeply, but now understands how to be loved in return — starting from within.

Keep going. For as long as it takes. Until it stops hurting.

It’s the only way.

it’s been 10 years since I have spoken to my mother

by Vienda | 12 Sep 2024 | Love + Relationships

why love is not enough and the pain of walking away

In August my birthday came and went.

With it, for the first time since I wrote ‘It’s been 6 years since I spoke to my mama’ a familiar note arrived.

It’s been four years.

This time there is no subject line.

Just text in the body of the email.

Happy birthday Vienda 🎂 followed by a cake emoji.

The pain of walking away from someone you love for the sake of self-preservation is one that never goes away.

It ebbs and flows.

Some days I feel deep compassion. Her life has not been an easy one.

Some days I feel fierce anger. She could have done better.

Some days I really want her to say:

~ sorry that I didn’t know how to parent you
~ sorry that I was not being able to be present for you or nurture you
~ sorry that I projected my anger, bitterness and frustration into you
~ sorry that I acted so righteous and like I had everything under control
~ sorry that my conditioning destroyed every relationship in my surroundings
~ sorry that I abandoned you as often as I did because I was terrified of being abandoned myself

I want her to say

Life is hard and I was faced with many challenges but I take responsibility for the ways that I handled them.

I want her to admit that she’s not a victim but that her choices were a byproduct of circumstances.

Sorry.

I fucked up.

Like everyone else.

I did my best.

I am not right.

Or better than anyone.

All my actions were attempts to protect myself and that is my fault. Not yours

Sorry

A therapist once told me that every every child wants to hear ‘I’m sorry’ and every parent wants to hear ‘Thank you’ and often neither gets either.

A friend asked me if I could imagine ever having a relationship with my mother again.

I always hope to, I replied. But it requires behaviour changes. What I need from her is to take full responsibility for herself and her actions.

I reply to her email.

thank you. I hope you are happy and well. happy birthday on the 23rd to you too.

Trauma can be a wellspring of growth.

Through the crucible of difficult relationships, I found unexpected healing.

It took reaching a breaking point — a place of unbearable tension and rejection — to realize a fundamental truth: I am the guardian of my own well-being.

When I finally accepted the absence of my mother’s mothering, the ensuing grief affirmed both my needs and my capacity for deep love.

I could have chosen victimhood. I could have repeated her pattern.

Instead, I embraced the painful work of feeling and healing.

My goal has always been authenticity.

To be at ease with myself, open to giving and receiving profound love. To face life with both tenderness and courage, unburdened by the past. To cultivate relationships with kindred spirits, where mutual trust and safety nurture shared vulnerability.

It’s in this space — at the intersection of loss and love — that I’ve discovered my truest self.

Unlearning self-protective habits is painful, but necessary.

Healing often lies in doing the opposite of what once kept us safe. By embracing our raw authenticity, we allow ill-fitting relationships to fall away. It’s both a death and a rebirth.

What emerges is rare and beautiful: feeling truly seen and loved by those who can hold all our complexity.

The path to genuine connection requires us to trust our own worthiness, to risk opening our hearts. And sometimes, it means having the courage to walk away from relationships that require us to diminish ourselves.

a letter to my dead father

by Vienda | 15 Jul 2024 | Love + Relationships

There’s a new wisdom in me now. A patience I’ve not known before. I’m no longer forcing the future into being.

“Your Papa, is he ok?” she falters, the words fragmented in her French accent.

“Se morte, he’s dead,” I reply, hoping my Spanish-to-French translation makes sense.

“Oui, I know but, ah…” looking for words she does not have in a language unfamiliar to her.

I nodded. She wanted me to look into my relationship with him, to check in with him across the cosmic ether between the living and the dead.

It was my fourth day in the South of France in a villa tucked in the mountains behind Nice.

The bodywork this healer had just given me felt mostly energetic, subtly infused in long repetitive strokes across my naked body, loosening and wakening the tight parts, the coiled inside themselves parts, the parts that had hardened to protect me from life’s rough edges.

☾

This morning, I found myself back in the U.K. – a land so dreary and cold, even in the heart of July, that I’ve christened it ‘Mordor’. The irony isn’t lost on me.

I reached for my journal.

First, I immersed myself in the celestial dance, jotting down notes on the week’s astrological forecast. Then, with a deep breath, I turned to a fresh page.

And there, in the quiet of the morning, I began to write to my father. Words flowed, bridging the gap between worlds.

“Ciao, Papa.” I began…

Though my pen hasn’t formed words for him in years, his presence lingers, a constant whisper in the air around me. In quiet moments, I find myself reaching out, seeking his guidance. His spirit, a silent partner in my decision-making, a comforting presence I turn to in times of need.

Tears blurred my vision as I wrote, a familiar ache settling in my chest. The weight of a lifetime unshared pressed down on me, heavy with missed opportunities. A flicker of resentment burned towards my mother, whose actions had carved a chasm between us.

I often found myself wondering if more time together might have changed everything. Perhaps he wouldn’t have met his fate, alone, navigating that serpentine mountain road in Sardinia, when I was just a ten-year-old girl, worlds away.

I poured my heart onto the page – my musings, aspirations, and visions for the future. Then, pen hovering, I asked if he had any wisdom to impart or requests to make. Closing my eyes, I let the stillness envelop me, waiting for that familiar whisper of inspiration.

Suddenly, words flowed through me, as if my hand had a mind of its own:

You and your dreams are important and valid. Don’t minimise or downplay them because they are unlike those of the majority. You are carving out a new way for people with your essence and Being. I am always here. Helping and guiding you.

☾

Those five sun-soaked days already feel like a distant dream. I can still feel the warmth deepening the brown of my skin, taste the juice of ripe summer fruits – peaches, cherries, melons – running down my chin. Those five days in southern France with my surrogate family awakened something primal in me. A reminder of my Mediterranean soul, forever tethered to sun and sea.

Yet, duty calls me back to this grey land, for now.

It’s curious, though. After being caught in a karmic whirlpool the past few years that stripped away my old self, I’ve emerged with remarkable clarity. The path ahead shimmers with possibility, my motivation and inspiration at an all-time high.

There’s a new wisdom in me now. A patience I’ve not known before. I’m no longer forcing the future into being. Instead — I’m engaged in a delicate dance with destiny — part trust, part inspired action.

The rest of this year is going to be filled with miracles. I can feel it.

They’re waiting in the wings, ready to unfold.

and just like that…

by Vienda | 14 May 2024 | Love + Relationships

I became a caregiver to 2 small boys.

Wilted flowers, sticks and stones of varying sizes in pockets. Tiny, sticky fingers reaching for hands, arms, shoulders, legs, anything to hold on to. Miniature toy cars, dried-up mandarin peel, a collection of leaves in my woven basket. The backseat covered in a small display of muddy prints and lost pebbles.

Those are the symbols of my last few weeks.

Fleeting fragments of enchantments that materialise as dirt and mess to the unobservant conjured up from the imaginations of a 2 and 4-year-old.

Parts of my brain, formerly dormant, have been activated to sense threats and dangers, perceive needs and triggers, and either coax or soothe in response to each one. I fall into bed, heavy with fatigue two days per week, with nothing left to give.

It’s a satisfying feeling, to be at the mercy of two small, demanding bodies that require every moment of your attention in a forcefully present way.

I’m not sure how it happened. Without a doubt, kismet was at hand.

One day their mother and I were dreaming over a matcha laughing about how fun it would be to live next door to each other, the next, that’s exactly what we were doing.

For the past three years, I have lamented how strange our modern silo lives are, often disconnected from real community, operating in isolation from one another.

This was not my reality until recently. When I stopped travelling and endeavoured to stay still in developed countries. Not really until I moved to Canada with my ex. Later amplified by the global pandemic.

Now, two days a week, plus a scattering here and there I have become, what my poet-friend calls an ‘alloparent’.

We don’t know how long it will last. It’s an arrangement to revisit based on the shifting sands of life and time after summer. But for now, it’s perfect.

I’m enjoying exercising my maternal nature.

One of the boys is highly sensitive, quick to be acitivated and slow to be soothed. He responds the best to a range of trust-building practises with patience and consistency and lots of reassurance through physical touch and words.

I’m enjoying applying human development tools that I have learned, teach and use across the decade of my career in such a real way. Nervous system co-regulation and attachment style approaches are incredibly useful in daily moments.

My relationship with time has shifted. I have both not enough and more than enough concurrently. My work days and hours have taken on a different feeling.

The creativity and impetus that normally flows feels more forced at the moment. I assume this will shift once I find my way with this new iteration of life.

I admire all fulltime caregivers that attempt to have a creative life or career alongside childrearing.

Children take up some much of your physical and mental real estate.

They’re also incredibly healing.

So many parents I speak to relish the chance to give to their children in the ways that they weren’t met as children. Healing their own inner child by giving what was once needed.

Sometimes I wish more adults knew how important it is to do that work with ourselves first. If we all took the responsibility to reparent ourselves before we reach out to parent others there would be a lot more harmony in the world.