Just Breathe Confessionals

The One Who Helped Me Heal

• Just Breathe Confessionals • Season 1 • Episode 10

Share episode

Send us a text

This isn’t a love story… it’s a healing story.
 In this chapter of The Love Chapters, I talk about the relationship that came after the one that broke me — the one that showed me what gentleness could look like, what safety could feel like, and what it meant to take up space after years of shrinking myself.

This episode isn’t about going back.
 It isn’t about longing or reliving old moments.
 It’s about looking at the past through the eyes of the woman I’ve grown into.

Because the girl I was then needed those lessons — and the woman I am now loves the way I love because of them.

In this episode, I share:

  • how a random Facebook friend request became an unexpected turning point
  • what it felt like to be seen without fear
  • the small moments that taught me my voice mattered
  • how healing doesn’t always look pretty… but it always teaches you something
  • and how a beagle-chihuahua named Dottie became the gentlest reminder that love can take many shapes

This chapter wasn’t meant to last forever — but it helped me find myself again.
 And the version of me who learned those lessons?
 She’s the one who knows how to love deeply now.


SPEAKER_00:

Welcome back to Just Breathe Confessionals. These last few episodes are called the Love Chapters. In the previous episode, I talked about a toxic relationship I was in back in high school, the one that made me question who I was and what I deserved. But this part, it's different. This is what came after. The season where I started putting myself back together. Slowly, awkwardly, but honestly. And I want to be real here. I was definitely not ready to get into anything after that breakup. I didn't have the tools, the clarity, or the emotional maturity. I was still carrying bruises I hadn't even named yet. And here's the thing about breakups when you're young. There's a really scary part no one warns you about. You're vulnerable, you're wide open. And if you're not surrounded by good people, you can be taken advantage of so easily, mostly because you don't even know you're unprotected. Luckily, I wasn't alone. I had friends and family who kept me grounded, people who pulled me back down to earth, when my head started floating into places it shouldn't, people who reminded me of my worth even when I couldn't see it myself. And because of them, I didn't drift too far. Because of them, I stayed connected to reality instead of falling straight into another version of same hurt. That support changed everything for me. And during that time, someone came into my life who didn't try to fix me, but simply held space for me to grow. He taught me how to stand up for myself, how to speak even when my voice shook, how love can exist without fear. He wasn't my forever, but he was a reminder that healing is possible, even when you don't realize it's happening yet. Even when you're still a little messy, a little unsure, a little broken in places you haven't named. So let's talk about him. The one who helped me heal. Back then, I was in this weird in-between season, just trying to survive school and figure out who I was without an other half attached to me. I was learning how to be alone without feeling abandoned, how to make choices without checking in with someone all the time, how to have connections without explaining where I was going, who I was with, or why I didn't answer my phone fast enough. It was the first time in years that my life actually belonged to me. My days, my decisions, my friendships, they were all mine again. And I was still getting used to that freedom. So when this next part happened, it didn't feel like stepping into a new relationship. It felt like a small spark showing up, right in the middle of me trying to rebuild myself. And the way it happened, peak millennial. No meet cute, no slow motion movie moment, just a Facebook friend request. I was 19, sitting at home and mindlessly scrolling Facebook when this tatted up guy from Michigan popped onto my screen. I messaged him, do I even know you? And he said he was adding people from California because he was thinking about moving there. And look, why did I, with anxiety and trust issues, start talking to a literal stranger online? Well, duh, he was cute. But it wasn't just that. Something about him felt genuinely easy, like someone I could talk to, without shrinking myself or over-explaining my existence. We ended up talking nonstop. Facebook messages, texting, Skype calls, the whole early 2010s communication starter pack. We even made video messages for each other, and because they were too big to send, we uploaded them to a private YouTube playlist. Not because it was romantic, but because we were simply talking about life, about who we were becoming, about things that shaped us. It wasn't love. It wasn't a rebound. It was just connection. Simple, unexpected, arriving at the exact moment I was learning how to exist on my own. I wasn't just getting over a breakup. I was coming out of a relationship where control was normal, where I learned to make myself small to keep the peace. And when you live inside that for years, you start to believe you are the problem, that you're too much, and somehow still not enough at the same time. So when someone new showed up who didn't want to control me or change me or make me earn my place, I did not know how to handle that. Because when you've been conditioned to expect pain, kindness feels really suspicious. Because there was this small, shaky part of me that wanted to believe love could feel softer, warmer, safe. And that's the part that let me try again with him. After months of talking, late-night phone calls, voice notes, and I was 19, still learning how to breathe without fear, still figuring out who I was, when no one was controlling my every move. So taking a chance on anyone felt unreal. When I told my dad about him, I expected worry, but instead he just said, if you're gonna do this, you're not doing it alone. And he put me on a plane to Michigan, not out of approval, but out of protection. When I walked out of the airport, the cold hit me first. And then I saw him, sitting in his car, tapping the steering wheel, just as nervous as I was. We made eye contact and laughed in that breathless, oh my god, we actually did this kind of way. I got in the passenger seat, and the first thing he said was, You're good. Don't worry. Not dramatic, just soft, steady, human. That night we sat in his kitchen eating hamburger helper out of mismatched bowls, and it felt almost sacred in how ordinary it was. No performing, no tiptoeing, just two people who had been hurt trying to be soft with each other for one night. When we kissed, it was quiet, warm, simple, the kind of comforting that makes your body exhale before your mind even realizes it's safe. And for the first time in so long, hope didn't feel like a trick. It felt like a quiet light I could hold on to in the palm of my hand without burning myself. But hope is the doorway, not the home, and everything that came after is where the real story lives. He did something small that felt enormous in the world I had come from. Every time I said, I'm sorry, which was constant, almost automatic, like I was apologizing for existing before I even knew what I was doing, he would pause. Not annoyed, not confused, just this soft sadness, like he was seeing the version of me who had learned to shrink to survive and wishing she didn't have to. He'd say, You don't have to apologize for being yourself. And I swear, if the first time I heard that, my body didn't know what to do with the permission. With him, I could be quiet without fear. I could be loud without shame, messy, emotional, unsure, and still loved. He never asked me to make myself smaller so he could feel bigger. He never asked me to edit my softness or my depth or my feelings. He let me take up space, real space, for maybe the first time in my entire life. And that kind of love rearranges you. We didn't stay together forever. We tried. We really did. We broke up and got back together, broke up again, not out of chaos, not out of harm, but because we were young and growing, and sometimes growth sends people in different directions, even when there's still love there. And every time it ended, it hurt. But this time, I didn't lose myself in the hurting. With him, I learned how to use my voice, how to say, This hurt me. I miss you. This matters to me. I had never done that before. And even when it ended, I stayed meat. That was the real healing. After that, we moved into a different phase of knowing each other. Not dating, not together, but still connected in this quiet, gentle way, a familiar softness that didn't need a title. The last time I saw him was the day he gave me the greatest gift of my life, my dog, Dottie. He couldn't care for her anymore, and he knew I would give her a good life. He trusted me with her. This little Beagle Chihuahua he loved so much. Eleven years later, she's my greatest treasure. And honestly, that's the kind of relationship we were to each other. No hate, no anger, no pain, just care. Deep enough that he could hand me the dog he adored, knowing she'd be safe with me in California. Even though we didn't work out, I'll never say he was a mistake. Some people don't come into your life to stay. They come to remind you what's possible. To show you that love can be gentle, that being seen doesn't mean it has to hurt. He taught me how to love again. He taught me how to trust my voice. He reminded me that I wasn't broken. I was just healing, quietly, in my own time. He gave me laughter, he gave me space to grow, he gave me patience on days when I didn't even like myself. There were nights I cried and he pulled me close like he could feel every bit of my heartache and was trying to hold it for me. He taught me what unconditional love looks like. No manipulation, no fear, just presence, just care. Every good thing I learned from that relationship, the kindness, the patience, the ability to feel safe again came from the way he showed up. He showed me that affection doesn't have to be earned, that you can be loved simply for being who you are. And as I've gotten older, I've realized something else too. He is a hundred percent the reason I have a I don't give a fuck attitude about certain things now. He used to tell me, you, your peace, and your family, that's what matters. People don't like you, fuck them. And honestly, that lesson really stuck with me. And through all of it, the good, the distance, the endings, he left me with a reminder that love can be kind. And for that, I'll always be thankful. Some people aren't meant to be forever. They're meant to bring you back to yourself. That's what he was. A chapter that didn't need to last to still matter to me. Healing didn't look magical or cinematic. It looked like awkward conversations, long distance heartbreak, and a Beagle Chihuahua who decided my pillow was her pillow. And maybe it looked like a Facebook friend request quietly changing the trajectory of my life, or flying to Michigan at 19 because hope felt louder than fear. But love, even when it ends, can leave you softer, more open, more you. Every love teaches us something about coming home to ourselves. Thanks for listening to Just Breathe Confessionals. Until next time, sit back, relax, and just breathe.