Learning to Feel Again

A journal entry written on December 28, 2025

This post is a personal journal entry written in real time. It reflects on emotional numbness, past relationship pain, and the process of reconnecting with oneself. I’m sharing it as it was written—imperfect, honest, and unfiltered.

If you choose to read, thank you for holding this moment with care.

In November 2021, I went through what felt like the biggest heartbreak of my life. The person I spent five years with—the last of my twenties—left me for someone else. I wish I could say it was all her fault and she ruined my life, but the truth is, that relationship took what was left of the good in me and stomped on it long before she came into the picture. I wish I could say it was all his fault that I was broken, but the damage had been done long before he came along.

This month—honestly, this year—has been full of milestones that once felt impossibly far away. But every time I succeeded, I still couldn’t figure out why I needed something else just to feel anything. It was always, “Okay, let’s do this next thing, and then I’ll be happy.” Or to be honest—then I’ll feel. Anything. I wonder how many of us live like that, quietly postponing our feelings until the next achievement gives us permission to have them.

When he left in 2021, I cried. I broke things. Hell, I got them fired from their jobs. I won’t lie. She was his boss, and in my anger and heartbreak, I didn’t act from a place I’m proud of—I acted from a place of devastation. But even then, the feelings didn’t stay. It was like I was acting out what I was supposed to do, and once the scene was over, the emotions disappeared.

I even gave myself credit for how quickly I “moved on.” Just another example of my strength. Another reason I was so worthy of love, and everyone else was just crazy not to see it.

The truth is, I didn’t have time to sit and feel anything. When he left, I had responsibilities: rent, bills, no car, and two kids who needed me. I had a struggling real estate career and no other income, because up until the very day he left, he assured me he wasn’t going anywhere. So I acted fast. I got a job. I kept my license. I enrolled in school. I stayed single, and I made a point to work on myself until I reached a place where, if I ever needed to walk away again, fear of loneliness wouldn’t be the reason I stayed.

Things haven’t been easy, but I’ve slowly chipped away at the goals I set—one at a time. I even accomplished a longtime dream of seeing Beyoncé in concert. Still, I felt nothing. I went through the motions of what I should be feeling. I remember thinking, “What is wrong with me? I should feel so much joy right now.” It’s strange how quickly we turn confusion inward and assume something must be wrong with us.

Determined to fix it, I told myself it had to be something: the trauma, the ADHD, the anxiety… maybe depression. Still not fixed? Maybe it was sleep apnea. Each diagnosis led to the same place—nowhere. I went to therapy. I took the medicine. I even slept with a damn CPAP machine. None of it solved what I thought was broken.

I can cry now. I can focus. I sleep through the night. And somehow, I still feel like a shell of myself. Disconnected from my emotions—like I’m watching myself feel everything from a distance, but my mind and body never fully meet.

October 6: I started a job that tripled the income from the first job I took in 2021. I was preapproved for a home loan, and suddenly buying a home in March became a real possibility. December 21: I submitted my final assignment for my bachelor’s degree. I’m proud of myself. I did it.

But today was the first time everything truly hit me—and not because I was excited about what I achieved.

Today, I decided to read every journal in my house, going back to 2016.

I’ve always been the kind of person who buys a new journal every year because “this will be the year everything changes.” A collection of unfinished notebooks filled with affirmations, goals, and lists: financial freedom, engagement, things to do better. What surprised me most was that it wasn’t the positive entries that cracked me open.

It was the painful ones.

One entry was from when I was still in my relationship. I wrote about how I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t get him to love me the way I so desperately needed. Other entries were me gaslighting myself—convincing myself that I was the problem. That if I could just get over my insecurities, things would be better. All while ignoring that just a few lines earlier, I had already written exactly why I didn’t trust him.

Then there were the entries about my childhood. The trauma. The loneliness. The desperation to understand why I’ve always felt so alone. I cried reading how badly I just wanted answers. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that identifying my deepest wounds was the same thing as healing them. That happiness would lead to wealth, and wealth would finally buy peace.

As I read, I cried hard—but for the first time in a long time, I also felt something else.

I felt sympathy.

I felt overwhelming sympathy for the twenty-something-year-old girl whose thoughts I was holding in my hands. I wanted to hug her and tell her she didn’t deserve any of it. She didn’t deserve to be forced to survive with no one to turn to but herself.
I wonder how many of us are still carrying younger versions of ourselves who never received that kind of kindness.

And then, once I was done crying, I smiled.

For the first time, I felt the emotions in my body. I didn’t tell myself to suck it up. I didn’t minimize my pain by comparing it to others’. I didn’t let my ego demand some impossible level of strength that doesn’t actually serve me. I realized how often I had cared more about how strong I appeared than how supported I felt.

Reading those journals felt like sharing a moment with my past self. I laughed at some entries. I cried at others. Some made me clutch my pearls a little.

And when I was finished, something surprised me.

Even then—messy, confused, delusional and all—I liked her.

Dare I say, I loved her.

And it felt incredible to see myself through nonjudgmental eyes. Through eyes filled with empathy, compassion, and grace.

That’s when I knew what I needed to do.

I picked up a pen. I opened one of the million unfinished journals. I chose a page. And I started writing the entry you’re reading right now.

Because five years from now, I want to stop and share a moment with myself again.

When I’ve forgotten how far I’ve come—when I’m chasing another milestone and convincing myself the next achievement will finally make me feel whole—I want to read about this journey through younger, unknowing eyes.

And I want to give myself the love and compassion I have always deserved.

This is part of my ongoing journey with Her Second Bloom—where growth doesn’t come from fixing ourselves, but from finally listening.