When Love Hurts Your Peace
By Severen “Sevy” Henderson
Estimated reading time: 4 minutes
I’m not okay today. I’m not broken beyond repair, but I’m not myself either.
I’m sitting in what feels like emotional shrapnel—sharp pieces of words and moments still lodged under the skin. The kind of pain you don’t bleed from, but you feel every time you move. As I write this now, I feel a numbing sort of pain that I can only describe as stress.
People often discuss healing, growth, and staying positive. I count myself among them, as I advocate positivity and strive to follow my own advice. However, no one provides a roadmap for navigating the moments when the people you love most leave you feeling broken inside.
And that’s where I am.
Not destroyed. But cracked.
I don’t want to drink the pain away. I don’t want to numb it with distractions or go searching for validation I’ll regret later. I don’t want temporary relief with permanent consequences.
But I also don’t want to sit in silence pretending I’m fine.
Because I’m not fine, I’m looking for fine.
And that’s the part I think more people need to hear.
Today I Have Choices
I could spiral. I could shut down.
Two sayings come to mind: “Hurt people hurt people” and “Misery loves company.”
I’m hurt right now. And part of me wants to hurt back—to drag someone down into this with me just so I’m not alone in the pain.
But what kind of person would that make me? What kind of role model would I be for my kids if I let myself resort to those tactics?
I’d be no better than the person who left these cracks.
So instead of trying to make someone else feel what I’m feeling, I’m doing what I do when I feel great. I’m writing. I’m sharing. I’m being transparent with my feelings—the ugly ones included.
Not because it fixes anything, but because it steadies my hands when my heart is shaking. Because writing lets me name what I’m feeling without pretending I’m not bleeding inside.
This is how I cope. Not cleanly. Not perfectly. Just honestly.
The Loneliness Hits Different
It’s heaviest when you’re in the same house with someone who doesn’t see your efforts, your value, or the weight you carry quietly. When you’re told you don’t do enough, even though deep down you know—you know—you give more than most ever would.
Not for praise. Not for credit. But because that’s who you are.
And yet somehow, it still isn’t enough.
That kind of emotional hunger—needing to be seen, appreciated, understood—it’s a different kind of empty. The kind where sleep sometimes feels easier than facing another day carrying what no one else acknowledges.
When peace feels far away, unconsciousness becomes the closest thing to comfort.
Why I’m Writing This
Not because I’m healed.
I’m writing this because I’m hurting. And I’m choosing a pen over poison. Reflection over reaction. Words over war.
Because even though I’m bruised, I’m not willing to break myself to ease the sting.
Maybe there’s strength in that. Maybe there’s hope in that. Or perhaps it’s just survival in motion—and right now, that’s enough.
I don’t need to have all the answers tonight. I need to breathe through the ache instead of drowning in it.
If You’re Here Reading This
If you recognize that feeling, you’re not alone in it.
Some days, survival is the victory. Some days, choosing to process instead of implode is the win. Some days, writing 500 words instead of sending a text you can’t take back is what keeps you whole.
This is one of those days for me.
And if it’s one of those days for you, too, I’ll see you. You’re not weak for feeling this. You’re human for facing it.
The fire service taught me that you don’t wait until the flames are out to call it progress—sometimes controlling the burn is the breakthrough.
Today, I’m controlling the burn.
Tomorrow, I’ll reassess.
If this resonated, you might find value in these: More honest writing about creativity, resilience, and doing the work when it’s hard.
