The Ball You Learn to Carry

Someone described heartbreak in a way that never leaves you.

They said it starts as a razor-sharp ball in your stomach.

Covered in spikes.

Every movement hurts.

Every thought catches on it.

Every memory cuts.

And I felt that.

After my breakup, it wasn’t just emotional.

It was physical.

Like something had lodged itself inside me that I couldn’t shake, couldn’t outrun, couldn’t numb.

I’d wake up with it.

Train with it.

Sit by the ocean with it.

Even in the moments where life looked full — the boat, the sunsets, the freedom —

it was still there.

That ball.

At the beginning, everything touches it.

A song.

A place.

A thought of her laughing with someone else.

The idea that she might be building a life that no longer includes you.

And it cuts deep.

Not just because you lost her —

but because of what you lost in yourself.

The version of you that could have been softer.

More open.

Less guarded.

That’s what really hurts.

But something changes over time.

Not dramatically.

Not all at once.

Quietly.

The spikes begin to wear down.

You don’t notice it at first.

You just realise one day that a thought passed through you…

and didn’t destroy you.

You hear her name —

and your chest doesn’t collapse.

You remember her smile —

and instead of pain, there’s something closer to warmth.

Bit by bit, the sharp edges soften.

And here’s the truth most people don’t tell you:

The ball never fully disappears.

You don’t “get over” someone who mattered that much.

You don’t erase love like it was nothing.

You carry it.

But it changes form.

What was once jagged becomes smooth.

What once tore you apart becomes something you can hold.

Something that becomes part of you —

without breaking you.

I still feel it sometimes.

Out on the ocean, in the stillness,

when everything else falls quiet.

There’s a presence there.

A memory.

A weight.

But it’s no longer painful in the same way.

It’s… human.

A reminder that I loved deeply.

That I felt something real.

That for a moment in my life, someone felt like home.

And maybe that’s the real healing.

Not removing the ball —

but learning how to carry it without letting it define you.

To let it sit there, quietly,

while you keep moving forward.

Building.

Loving again.

Opening again — even when part of you is scared.

Because if you’re honest…

You wouldn’t choose to have never felt it.

Even knowing how much it hurt.

So now, when I feel it, I don’t fight it.

I just acknowledge it.

A small, smooth weight in my chest that says:

You loved.

You lost.

And you’re still here.

And somehow…

that feels like peace.