Holding Onto the Ghosts of a Breakup: Why I’m Not Rushing to Move On

The oat milk sat in the fridge for weeks, untouched. It wasn’t my usual choice, but discarding it felt impossible. As a general rule, I avoid wasting perfectly good food, but this was different. I wanted to hold onto a piece of him, a lingering vestige of a relationship recently concluded. I knew he wasn’t coming back. I knew the oat milk was, technically, mine now. Yet, the reminder of him, glimpsed in the periphery every time I opened the fridge, offered a strange comfort.

So did his digital footprint – his account still linked to mine on YouTube and HBO Max, the apps he’d downloaded to our television. I’ve kept them all. Walking through my closet, I see shirts he didn’t want, items he never bothered to discard. Even in bed, I instinctively gravitate towards the side he occupied, rarely crossing the invisible center line that once divided our space. These aren’t acts of conscious preservation, but rather a series of small, almost involuntary gestures, a way of keeping the past present.

The finality of it all hit me on a Sunday after Thanksgiving. He sent a picture of the moving truck as it pulled up to the house. I was out of town, at the gym. Tears welled up and overflowed before I could even attempt composure, in what felt like a profoundly inappropriate setting – a warehouse-like gym in South Jersey, surrounded by “Thin Blue Line” T-shirts and crew cuts. A month later, on Christmas, his absence was so palpable it felt as though a chalk outline of his body marked his place in my sister’s living room.

The dissolution of the relationship was a prolonged and grueling process, one that, at times, felt akin to Andrzej Żuławski’s 1981 horror film Possession. I had accepted the need to end things, but living through it was a different order of pain. While many seek quick fixes for heartbreak, or attempt to distill the experience into a series of negative components, I find that approach fundamentally dishonest. The end doesn’t negate what came before and painful memories can coexist with the good without one overpowering the other. It’s all relative, of course, but I feel a protective instinct towards my life experience, pain included. I lived it. It’s mine.

This resistance to quick fixes explains my skepticism towards protocols promising rapid emotional detachment. The “deromantization protocol,” a questionnaire claiming to help you fall out of love in 15 minutes, immediately triggered my defenses. Nine and a half years reduced to 15 minutes feels like a gross undervaluation. And frankly, I doubt I could even complete the questionnaire in that timeframe. Questions like “How many times have I changed myself, my plans, and my boundaries for them? How many times have they done the same for me?” demand hours of contemplation, not a rushed response. Another question asks, “Who have I become next to this person, better or worse?” For me, that question doesn’t propel me away from love; it makes me reflect on the ways the relationship fostered my growth and helped me become who I am today. It evokes tenderness, not detachment.

The post linking to the protocol credits psychologist Arthur Aron, known for his 36 questions designed to foster intimacy. However, Aron clarified in an email to Slate that he had no involvement in the protocol’s creation. This highlights a broader issue: much of the breakup “advice” circulating online is, simply put, bunk. A YouTube video offering a 10-minute solution for falling out of love similarly incorporates the flawed protocol, recommending the creation of a “devaluation list” outlining reasons why the relationship wouldn’t work. The speed with which these solutions are proposed feels dismissive of the complexity of human emotion.

There’s a wealth of reasonable, process-oriented advice available – guidance that acknowledges the lack of quick fixes and encourages embracing the difficult emotions. Psychology Today suggests “Accept the importance of grieving and think about what you are grieving.” I’m trying. But I’m particularly wary of suggestions that feel dishonest, that attempt to sanitize or distort the experience. Ridding myself of physical reminders, or compiling a list of “icks” to overcome heartbreak, feels counterproductive. Experts in psychedelic therapy suggest that when confronting challenging experiences, resisting the urge to escape is crucial – doing so can lead to a “bad trip.” I believe the same principle applies to love. As the saying goes, the only way out is through. And, as it turns out, that sentiment is echoed in pop music.

Pop music, with its emotional multivalence – the ability for something sad to be simultaneously addictive and beautiful – has become a soundtrack to my heartache. Listening affirms my complex feelings. A change in context has altered the sound of familiar songs. Songs that once felt invincible now resonate with a newfound vulnerability. At least then I’m in the good company of pop stars. They’ve been there too. I’ve found myself returning repeatedly to Madonna’s 1995 ballads collection, Something to Remember. Packed with classics, it offers comfort and emotional depth, a reminder that sadness can be beautiful. Madonna’s ability to coat sadness in sweetness (“I’ll Remember,” “Take a Bow”) is particularly resonant. Even the maudlin “This Used to Be My Playground” hits harder than ever. “Don’t hold on to the past? Well, that’s too much to ask,” she sings, a sentiment I wholeheartedly embrace.

I’m not wallowing; I’m savoring the pain. It’s a flavor of life that deserves respect. Without it, sweetness loses its meaning. I’m also, perhaps, afraid of emptiness. My sadness fills the void left by his absence, and helps me avoid a lifelong aversion to boredom. So I retrace steps. I intentionally walk past the first apartment we shared, stirring up spatial memories. I do it to feel as I once did, when my life was so deeply intertwined with his. This is my version of time travel, even if the deli across the street has changed names and the construction has long been completed. Nostalgia floods spaces once filled with reciprocated love, leaving me feeling both fuller, and lighter. It reminds me of why I stayed in the relationship for as long as I did, and fuels my determination to make sense of it all.

It’s not easy, and I still cry almost every day, which is progress from crying every day. There’s nothing wrong with crying. I’m still hesitant to formulate grand theories about the relationship’s meaning or identify its overarching themes, but I’ve been thinking more broadly about the concept of failure. It’s a label people readily apply to relationships. “Failed marriage” is common parlance. But I don’t see it that way. In a difficult world, to love and be loved, even for a time, is a success. Failure and finite success are distinct concepts. Most of all, I reject the notion that ten years of my life were worthless simply because the relationship ended. I hate the concept of waste – which is why I eventually drank the oat milk. The holidays were approaching, and it was nearing its expiration date.

As of today, I am both OK and completely destroyed. Talking about it helps. During a recent conversation, a friend expressed his dislike for the term “my ex,” finding it ugly and dehumanizing. I, however, like the term. It’s a way of retaining a piece of the past, of acknowledging a connection that once was. He is my ex. Forever.