Ten Things I'm Doing to Support Myself Through a Breakup

Heartbreak asks a lot of the body and the heart.

It reaches into our sleep, our appetite, our sense of who we are, and the way we move through an ordinary day. These aren't fixes, and they don't make the grief go away, but they're the small, steady ways I'm caring for myself while I move through it.

1. Keeping no contact.

We didn't go straight into no contact, and the dance in and out hurt more than the ending itself. Now we're holding the line, as a boundary of care. Each time we spoke, the wound reopened and my body had to start grieving all over again. No contact gives the absence a chance to become real, so my heart can begin to learn the shape of life without them.

2. Feeling my feelings when they come up.

In the car, in the shower, halfway through a sentence. Grief doesn't keep a schedule, and I'm learning not to ask it to. When a wave arrives, I let it move rather than pushing it down or saving it for a more convenient moment. Some days I cry and some days I feel surprisingly okay, and I'm trying to trust both.

3. Noticing the reach.

The pull to message still comes, sometimes softly, sometimes with real urgency. When it rises, I pause and notice where it lives in my body, the tightness in my chest, the restlessness in my hands. I put a hand on my heart, feel my feet on the ground, and let the wave rise and fall before I choose what to do. The reaching isn't wrong. It's love looking for somewhere to go, and I'm learning to let it come home to me.

4. Nourishing my body.

Grief is physical. It lives in the nervous system, the heart, the gut, and the bones, and it can leave us running on empty without realising. I'm resting when I'm tired, going to bed earlier, seeking warmth and gentle touch, and treating my body as a companion in this grief rather than something to push past. It's doing a lot of quiet work right now, and it deserves my tenderness.

5. Eating well.

Heartbreak can steal the appetite or send us looking for comfort in whatever is easiest. I'm cooking simple, nourishing meals, eating at regular times even when I'm not hungry, and letting food be an act of care rather than an afterthought. There's something steadying about feeding myself well when so much else feels uncertain.

6. Moving my body.

Emotion wants to move, and when it can't, it tends to settle in the chest and shoulders. I'm walking, stretching and moving in ways that feel good rather than punishing, letting the grief travel through muscle and breath. Movement also reminds me that I'm alive and capable, that my body can carry me forward even on the heavy days.

7. Not rushing into new connections.

When we're hurting, someone new can feel like relief, a quick way to soothe the ache or prove we're still desired. I understand that pull, but I'm choosing to wait, be intentional. I want any new connection to come from a whole and grounded place, not from the part of me that's trying to soothe a hurting or lonely heart.

8. Leaning on my friendships and my elders.

We were never meant to grieve alone. I'm reaching out to friends when I'd rather withdraw, saying yes to company, and letting the people who love me hold some of what's too heavy for me to carry by myself. I'm also turning to my elders, the ones who have loved and lost and come through, letting their love and wisdom soothe and warm me.

9. Being in nature.

The land has a way of holding what feels too big for me. Lying on the earth, getting the sun on my skin, leaning on trees, getting sand in between my toes, all help settle my nervous system in ways nothing else can. Nature keeps reminding me that everything moves in seasons, that endings are part of life, that something new always grows after a loss, and that I will be okay, no matter what.

10. Journalling and reflecting.

Writing gives the feelings somewhere to land when I can't say them out loud. I'm journalling mostly every day, what I miss, what I'm grateful for, what hurt, what I'm learning and what I want now. Reflection turns the grief into something that shapes me, rather than something that simply happens to me, it is potent time for growth and change and evolution of self.

None of this needs to be done perfectly.

Some days I manage all ten and some days I manage one.

What matters is the intention underneath, to keep choosing care, even in the middle of heartache.

If you're in your own season of letting go, I hope you can be gentle with yourself. Give yourself grace.

With love, Narla.