Maybe We Are All a Little Broken
A real-time reflection of healing and reclaiming my worth after someone tried to shatter me.
This weekend, something happened that rattled me to my core. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out why I feel so shaken up by it- and I think I’ve finally figured it out.
For me, it’s the emotional shock of watching someone I thought I could trust, morph into an unrecognizable monster before my eyes.
Someone who picked me up from the airport and carried my bags…
Suddenly flipping both middle fingers in the air yelling “fuck you”.
Someone who once sent me video messages full of admiration
Now screaming at me to “shut my fucking mouth.”
Someone who gave me sweet kisses all over my cheeks…
Now telling me I’m broken and unloveable.
Someone I thought was a safe space to open my heart to…
Trying to purposely shatter my sense self worth.
Friday night just after it happened I was catatonic on the floor, completely dissociated from my body. Feeling just as broken as he described.
But today, just 48 hrs later. I feel better. Stronger. More like myself.
I still don’t know how to make sense of the situation. Every time I try to mentally piece it together, I’m left with more questions than answers.
But I’ve realized:I don’t need to make sense of it in my mind- in order to start healing the trauma in my body.
So I want to share what I’ve been doing to process what happened- because I’m proud of how I’ve been showing up for myself in the aftermath.
I wrote everything down immediately
Right after he left, I opened the Notes app on my phone and wrote down everything I could remember. My memory already felt hazy. I was in a daze, and I could tell I was starting to dissociate.
I wanted to capture the facts while they were still fresh.
I typed out exact quotes. Descriptions. Tone. Sequence. Anything I could recall.
Looking back, I honestly wish I had recorded him the moment he started yelling.
In situations like this, it’s so easy to doubt your own memory. To gaslight yourself.
The more concrete evidence you have, the harder it is to second-guess your reality.
When I later tried to tell the story to friends, it sounded so extreme I almost didn’t believe it myself. Having that note to refer back to grounded me in the truth of what happened.
I Reached Out to Friends (Even Though I Felt Embarassed)
On Friday night, in the immediate aftermath, I called a friend and asked her to come pick me up.
Just saying the words “Hi, I need help — can you come get me?” felt terrifying.
I hate asking for help. And this was a new friend.
One who had already witnessed some of the drama earlier in the evening.
I felt embarrassed involving her further.
But I also knew I could not be alone with my thoughts that night.
When she arrived, she said, “You can share as much or as little as you want.”
And I just knew- I had to share everything.
I needed to say every horrible thing he had said out loud.
Because if I didn’t, they would fester. They would grow in the shadows of shame.
Brene Brown says that shame hates the light of day. And I knew I needed to bring this into the light so shame didn’t have a place to land.
I shared my story with one friend that night.
Left voice notes for others.
Talked to two more the next day.
Every time I told the story, someone said something that helped me anchor back into myself:
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“You are lovable. He just said those things to hurt you.”
Even when you know those things intellectually- hearing them spoken out loud felt so impactful. I didn’t realize how much I would need to hear people say those things, but they truly felt like medicine.
I Let Someone Hold Me While I Cried
One friend listened to my whole story, and by the end, I started to cry.
She didn’t say anything. She just walked over, sat down next to me, and wrapped her arms around me.
It wasn’t just a hug. It was a full-body holding.
She didn’t let go until I was done crying.
It felt like my nervous system could finally exhale.
Especially because- during the incident- I had started to cry too. Quietly. I turned my head so he wouldn’t see. But when I couldn’t hold back the sobs, he looked at me and said:
“I hope you cry all fucking night.”
And then he kept going. Berating me with his words.
So to experience the opposite — to be held while crying — was incredibly healing.
It felt like the thing my body needed to rewrite that moment.
I Went to a Yoga Class (Even Though I Didn’t Feel Like It)
The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed to go to a yoga class.
It might not be the right move for everyone, but I knew I needed some structure. Some gentle social interaction. Some movement.
I low key cried throughout the class.
Tears rolled down my face during savasana, while memories played in my head.
But I just let them come.
Even though I felt like a bit of a nutcase crying in public — it felt better than crying alone in my bed.
And it felt like something was being released.
I danced it all away
Because the universe has perfect timing, I had already signed up for an ecstatic dance experience the very next day. I cannot imagine a better way to release everything.
Barefoot in the grass.
Sun on my face.
Wind in my hair.
Surrounded by kind-hearted strangers.
I let my body move however it wanted- stretch, shake, jump, flow.
Each song pulled me deeper into my body.
Each movement helped me feel a little freer, a little safer.
By the end of the night, my toes were black with dirt and my back was sore from too much cosmic twerking.
But my heart felt light.
My soul felt peaceful.
Not euphoric. Just… settled.
Like my body was saying: You’re okay now.
The Sad Girl Shower
After dance, I got home a sweaty, dirty mess. So I took a shower. But not just any shower — a Sad Girl Shower™.
(Yes, I am trademarking this.)
Here’s the ritual:
I turned on my favorite Taylor Swift songs.
I stepped into the hot water.
And I sang. LOUD.
“Better Man.” “All Too Well.”
I cried. I belted. I let the water and the music cleanse me.
There’s something powerful about crying and singing in the shower.
It feels like an emotional purge. Like your body, your heart, and the water are all working together to say:
Let it out. Let it go. You’re safe now.
I still don’t really understand what happened. It’s like my mind experiences a processing error when I try to connect the dots logically. There are so many parts of what happened that don’t make sense to me.
And maybe it will never make sense, but there is one thing he said to me that I want to reclaim.
He said “You’re a broken woman”.
He said it like an insult.
Like it was proof that there was something wrong with me.
But here’s the truth:
Yes, I am broken.
And No, there’s nothing wrong with me.
Because we are all broken in some way.
We all have sharp edges and gaping wounds.
We all have moments we’re not proud of, patterns we haven’t healed yet, parts of ourselves we’re still learning how to love.
We are wounded children walking around unsupervised in adult bodies doing our best to feel safe, to feel seen, to feel loved.
But I don’t want to live in a world where we weaponize each other’s pain.
Where we punish each other for being human.
I want to live in a world where brokenness isn’t a source of shame.
Where we don’t shatter each other further…
But instead offer grace and a soft landing.
Because none of us makes it through life unscathed.
We are all a little broken
But that’s where the healing starts-
with the radical decision to love each other anyway.