Every breakup that I’ve gone through has had a severely different healing timeline than the last. Even though chaos is what I expect, I still find myself searching for a satisfying linear model of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance – easy to recognize and easy to swallow. 

 

My most recent breakup has been the most tumultuous of them all. It’s only been about three months since the separation, but I feel like I’ve lived five different lives in that time. Considering how serious the relationship was, I’m almost confused by how casually I’ve moved on. I look at how the past few months have gone by, and I question whether or not I’ve done something wrong along the way.

 

Sometimes, I feel like I’ve failed to heal “properly” because I’ve already gone on dates or because I can count the times I’ve cried over my ex on one hand. I tell myself that I’m supposed to be living on the couch, gobbling down ice cream pints, binging romance dramas, and sobbing while listening to sad music – instead of giggling over a conversation with my newest Hinge match and explaining my breakup without insults or crying. Or, on the other hand, I’m supposed to do the opposite extreme: partying, posting hot pictures on Instagram, and avoiding the uncomfortable reality of my heartbreak. 

 

I’ve always hated having this constant expectation for how I’m supposed to feel. Why should I force myself into either a perpetual state of despair or constant hedonistic distraction? Why does moving on have to look a specific way? Shouldn’t I be able to mourn the presence of someone who once meant the world to me? Shouldn’t I be allowed to embrace the chaos and unpredictability of healing, just like I’ve learned to accept everything else that’s out of my control? 

 

Gardening has been used as an analogy for growth in any and every situation that one can think of. As corny as it sounds, it’s been a surprisingly helpful tool for helping me come to terms with the nature of my own growth and healing.

 

We are gardeners, and we know that, even if we let our flowers grow in the most perfect and ideal conditions, we can’t control how our flowers grow. We can’t predict how tall or pretty a flower will be, how long a flower will survive, nor how long it will take to grow in the first place. 

 

Healing is similar to flowers, in this way, because we can’t control how we grow– we can only control the conditions that we grow in. Forgiving ourselves, spending time with ourselves, and spending time with people that care for us is like providing the soil, water, and sunlight that are essential for a flower to grow. 

 

Just like flowers, there will be external factors– memories, an old song, unexpected emotions– that temporarily set back growth. However, if we continue to provide the best that we can for our garden– if we give ourselves compassion and patience– we can reasonably expect growth, even if we can’t see it yet. 

 

After I finally was able to accept the fact that I could heal in my own time, I learned that the process of growing, healing, and letting go doesn’t mean that I have to erase what we had. I can look back on our time together and be grateful for the hills and valleys while still being hurt by how things ended. Growing, at least for me, is allowing my hurt to coexist with whatever part of me healed. Some days, my soil feels healthy and light, and I feel like I’ve grown to be the best, happiest version of myself; other days, my soil is dry and heavy with regret, what-ifs, and the strong urge to dig up my roots just to check if they’re growing. 

 

I’ve learned that, on those rough days, it’s important to remind myself to stop questioning my progress– to stop “measuring” my growth by how little it hurts or how quickly I can move on. 

 

Healing isn’t linear. It can be confusing, unsatisfying, inconsistent, and unimpressive. 

 

However, like any gardener, all you can do is tend to your garden and trust that your work, in its own time, will make something beautiful.