Are You Healing or Just Becoming Numb?

It was a quiet evening back during my university days. As many of you who have been reading my Substack for a while know, you know my previous relationship didn’t just end; it unravelled, leaving behind a version of me that I had to rebuild piece by piece.

About four or five months after the breakup, I walked down to the small convenience store near my hostel area. The evening air was cool, and I was on autopilot, running a mundane errand, wrapped in the comforting blanket of my own supposed indifference. I felt solid. I felt fine.

Then, as I crossed the parking lot toward the glass doors of the store, I saw a figure walking toward me in the dim light.

It was just a silhouette at first. But the build, the distinct stride, the haircut—it looked like my ex.

In less than a second, my entire body betrayed my delusion. My heart didn't just flutter; it began to beat wildly against my ribs, pounding so hard and fast I genuinely felt like it was going to burst out of my chest. My breath caught in my throat. Time slowed down into a suffocating standstill.

It turned out to be a complete stranger. As the person passed under the streetlight, revealing a face I had never seen before, my heart rate slowly descended. But as I stood there in the parking lot, clutching my keys, the real shock set in.

I hadn't healed at all. I hadn't processed the grief, or the anger, or the rejection. I had simply built a thick layer of ice over a wound that was still raw and bleeding underneath. Seeing someone who looked like him melted the surface in a single second, exposing the truth: I wasn't at peace. I was just numb.

I remember walking back to my room that night feeling completely humiliated by my own heart. I kept asking myself: “How am I still here? Why am I reacting like this when I was sure I was over it?”

Because for months, I’d been doing so well. I wasn't crying in the middle of the night anymore. I wasn't checking his Instagram. I was going out, laughing with friends, living my life. I genuinely thought that meant I was fixed. I thought peace was just the absence of panic. But standing in that parking lot, holding my breath, I realized I hadn't actually cured anything. I’d just turned off the lights and locked the door to that room inside me because going back in there hurt too much.

And I think a lot of us do this without even realizing it.

We live in a world that constantly tells us to "move on," to "detach," to be "unbothered." We act like whoever cares less wins. So when something breaks us, we put up these massive guardrails. We stop letting things touch us too deeply. And at first, it feels like safety. You tell yourself, “look at me, I'm fine now. I'm strong. I'm totally over it.”

But the scary thing about shutting down your heart to protect yourself from pain is that your heart doesn't have a separate volume knob for joy. Or for love. Or for real, deep connection. When you turn down the volume on the hurt, everything else gets quiet, too.

You end up living in this weird gray middle ground where nothing really destroys you, but nothing really moves you either. You’re just kind of... existing. Floating through days, doing what you’re supposed to do, but feeling detached from your own skin.

Being numb occurs in different aspects of our lives. Take me for instance. I used to be the friend who called just to check in for no reason, who remembered small details, who cried at other people's good news because I was that happy for them. But I got burned a few times — friends who disappeared when I needed them, friends whose loyalty turned out to have an expiry date I didn't know about, and instead of grieving those friendships properly, I just quietly recalibrated. I became the friend who's "chill." The one who doesn't need much, doesn't ask for much or get too invested because I didn't want to be disappointed.

For a while I thought I was just low maintenance. Easy going. Not needy. But if I'm honest, half the time I wasn't being easygoing, I was just protecting myself from the possibility of being let down again. I stopped initiating plans first because if I didn't reach out, I couldn't be the one who cared more.

In a lot of homes, especially the kind a lot of us grew up in, emotional restraint gets rewarded. Being the "strong one," the one who doesn't cry, the one who "handles things well" — that gets you praised. So you keep doing it. You become the family member people describe as "so mature for her age,” but you never wanted that. You just wanted to act like the child you were.

I don't know who needs to hear this today, but if you’ve been wondering why you can't feel truly excited about things, or why there’s this strange wall between you and the people who love you—maybe ask yourself if you’re actually okay, or if you’ve just gone cold.

Thawing out is terrifying. I won't pretend it's easy. The second you let down that guard, all the stuff you tried to bury comes rushing back—the grief, the disappointment, the leftover ache. It’s uncomfortable, mbarrassing and messy. But I’d rather feel the ache than feel nothing at all. I’d rather have a heart that’s bruised and sensitive than a heart that turned to stone just to survive.

Because being alive means actually feeling it. The mess, the heartbreaks, the terrifying vulnerability, and all the beautiful light that sneaks in when you finally let down your guard.

Btw, Happy girlfriend's day to every woman reading this right now. You deserve the best in this world and you'll get it. I hope you have a splendid day. And to anyone who feels sad because they don't have a romantic partner; you have me and I hope I'm more than enough. I love you deeply❤️