On a random afternoon, I learned that the person I loved to death was not taking the break he had spoken of, but was cheating on me. At that moment, every atom of my life began to turn blue. My breath lost its rhythm and I let it be. That was how shattered I was.
The hurt that rolled down my cheeks still desperately wanted us back. After all, how does a heart let go of what it has carried for a septennium? Grief does not follow logic; it follows attachment.
I did not know then that the day I found out would be the easiest one to survive. Winters always begin gently before they unveil. At dusk, I sank with the sun, and no dawn ever knocked on my windows. Winter became the only season my heart could feel. What began as a quiet chill soon spread, until I froze entirely.
A strange realization slipped in quietly, I had been entangled so deeply with this person that, in his absence, I could no longer trace myself. Untangling felt impossible. Losing who I was, and walking through what followed, became more than I could carry.
My days stretched longer, heavier. I became a prisoner in my own body, limbs frozen to the point where even tears could not be wiped away. Breathing itself grew strained; a single inhale burned through all my strength. All I could do was lie still and sob.
Months passed, and I found myself craving sleep, barely eating. My body transformed into something unfamiliar, incapable of even the simplest tasks. My mind and body ached together, yet to the world, I was simply lazy.
The world moved through seasons, while I remained frozen within. My will to live dropped,and death slowly started to feel like relief. The weight I carried felt heavier than death itself. I battled guilt, the guilt of no longer feeling awe at sunrises or rainbows, even while living in a home that was safe. That guilt pulled me deeper.
I reached a point where I needed warmth, or I would turn cold beyond return. But what the world heard was a joke, that an eighteen-year-old girl had been cheated on. What no one listened to was that she was breaking enough to be done with life.
And yet, light has a way of arriving unannounced.
One day, it peeked through my windows, carrying a warmth so mild it almost went unnoticed. But even the smallest rays can begin to thaw. The icebergs of my self-doubt, Am I worthy of being loved?, began to crack when I noticed two tiny furballs waiting for me to wake, ready to stay awake just so my dark, clouded skies could hold a few stars.
They licked the hurt from my cheeks when I couldn’t. They never left my side.
Aivee and Mila, my then four-month-old puppies.
Tiny rays matter, especially when they are consistent enough to melt even the hardest ice.
I struggled for years to emerge from that winter. But that first ray gave me hope, hope that told me I was worthy of every ounce of love I received. When the clouds finally moved, I could see the stars that had always been there, pouring warmth I could not feel before, as if I was in the fog.
Later, I began again, from the rubble. I built a version of myself I know deeply: a self I can vouch for, a self that can love me even when no one does, a self I can return to when I’ve nowhere else to go.
Being human, it took years to unlearn and relearn. I learnt to sit with endings. I learnt that messiness is part of becoming. I learnt to wake up and find peace within myself, to hold my own heart gently. I learnt to stop running from what felt heavy, and to choose the harder paths that healed me.
I learnt that even the harshest winters can be softened by small, faithful rays of hope and that sometimes, all we must do is be kind to ourselves until spring arrives.
I lost years to winter when no rays reached me. But as I write this now, sitting in one of the warmest places I have ever known, The Orange Room, I ask this of you: when you need warmth, reach for it. We are here, with all that we have, to help nurture your spring into bloom.
