when the dust settles

notes on love, loss, and the things we carry after

I think it’s true what they say, that some relationships will profoundly change you in ways you can’t fully comprehend until much later. It’s only in looking back, with some distance and tenderness, that you begin to see not just where the relationship fell short, but how it shaped you. How it invited you to grow in ways you never would have, had you not allowed yourself to be changed by it.

Someone once told me that relationships have seasons. That they must endure the cycles, the unpredictable rhythms, that test whether what you’re building actually has legs. And in a world where relationships have become commodified, where it’s easy to swipe through curated photos and cheeky bios designed to say “Pick me”, it’s hard not to feel like dating has become the wild wild west.

Sure, apps offer the illusion of connection. But more often, they’re just a reminder of how untamed this modern frontier of love really is. You show up with your wounds and your hopes. They show up with theirs. And if you’re lucky enough, several months in, the real test begins. The test of whether you can withstand the messy human parts of ourselves, the rupture, the inevitable conflict. Eventually, someone pays the price.

And when the dust settles, you’re left with the work. You unpack what just happened. You survey the wreckage. You gather the parts of yourself still intact. It’s gutting. It’s humbling. You have to quiet the noise of self-blame, silence the what-ifs, and search for clarity.

It’s true, hurt people hurt people. Not always on purpose. But that doesn’t make it any easier when you’re left alone, sorting through the silence, still hoping for some small acknowledgment. To hear that you mattered. That you brought joy. That your presence made a difference.

But, the closure you crave never comes. You’re left to live without the apology. Without the explanation. And so, you have to let time become the salve you hoped would come from someone else’s mouth.

You want to believe you’re learning to love yourself more with each passing year, with each relationship, and experience that has cracked you open. But the truth is, you’re just doing the best you can. Moving through the motions with the awareness you have in that moment. There’s no magic fix. No therapy session or ritual that can erase the longing to love and be loved. No shortcut through the ache of feeling stuck in reverse.

The only way is through.

Through the discomfort. Through the waves. Through the unanswered questions and the quiet gnawing of wanting something to make sense. And through it all, you learn to be so very gentle with the little one inside, the part of you that still believes, still hopes, and cannot afford for you to abandon them now.

So you pick up the pen, and you turn to the one thing you know can hold it all—the rawness, the tenderness, the ache...and you write about it.

© Alana Foy 2025