Navigating Heartbreak and Finding Connection

It’s funny, I think, how universally awful breakups are. Like, you hear about them in songs, in movies, your mom sighs about them while she's stirring soup on a Sunday afternoon, but you never *really* get it until you’re living it. I've been through a few – nothing epic, mostly just awkward college crushes that fizzled out, but each one felt like a miniature earthquake. That first one, sophomore year, felt like the end of the world. I remember deleting every photo, every text, every song that reminded me of him. A scorched-earth policy of the heart.

My dad always made these noises when I talked about boys. Just a little grunt, a shake of the head. Not malicious, just… confused. He never really understood the intensity of it. He'd say things like, "There are other fish in the sea," which, okay, I know, it's a classic, but in the moment it just felt dismissive. It’s like he couldn't grasp that the fish I wanted *wasn't* just any fish. It was *the* fish. Even though, logically, I knew I was being ridiculous.

My mom, though, she'd just hold my hand and let me cry. She wouldn’t offer solutions or pep talks. She just *listened*. And that, I realized, was more powerful than any advice. Because sometimes, you just need to be allowed to be sad. It’s a messy, uncomfortable, completely unavoidable part of being human. It’s okay to feel like the world has tilted on its axis and you're spinning.

I saw Phoebe Bridgers in April, and it was insane. The lights, the sound, the sheer collective energy of a room full of people feeling… something. After that show, a piece I’d written about a different band, a really obscure indie band from Pittsburgh, got reblogged on Tumblr. And then, a bunch of people from outside my town started commenting. It was the first time I realized that my words, my thoughts, could reach people I’d never meet, in places I’d never been. It was...weird.

I started noticing how people dealt with things. Not just breakups, but all kinds of losses. My neighbor down the street bought a bright red convertible after his divorce. It felt like he was screaming, "Look at me! I'm fine! I'm *living*!" Then there was Sarah from my English class who suddenly became obsessed with competitive knitting. Intense, complicated patterns, the kind that looked like they’d require a PhD in yarn management.

There’s this impulse, I think, to prove to the world – and maybe to yourself – that you're okay. That you’re not broken. That you’re moving on. But sometimes, those elaborate distractions, those bright red convertibles and complicated knitting patterns, feel more like performances than genuine healing. It's easy to get caught up in the act of *appearing* okay, rather than actually *being* okay.

The National's shows were always a good reminder of that. All that quiet intensity, the way the music seemed to pull the sadness right out of you. I remember feeling so… understood. Surrounded by strangers, all experiencing the same complicated feelings. It was a shared space of vulnerability.

Maybe that’s what we all need – a space where it’s okay to be messy, to be heartbroken, to be completely, utterly lost. A place where buying a red convertible or obsessing over knitting isn’t seen as a failure, but just another way of trying to navigate the wreckage. Because even the most elaborate distractions are just a signal: *I’m hurting. See me.*