Healing Is a Piece of Cake

Without ever noticing it at the time, I realised that after the years, I’d turned into a version of him. I’d started speaking like him, moving like him, eating like him, acting like him—and now that I think about it—looking like him.

And don’t think for one second that any of it was a good thing.

It was never a conscious choice. It was a survival instinct. It was my nervous system, doing its best to keep me safe, to keep me alive. It was my subconscious learning and taking notes to adjust to the environment, to be as stable as was humanly possible in that moment.

By the end of it, there was nothing left of me. The real me. I felt like I’d forgotten how to think for myself. I’d forgotten what I liked and disliked.

Instead, I had learned to think as a character in the position I was stuck in—a method actor, so to speak. I’d learned the behavior that kept me on his good side. I’d learned what were the "correct" things to prefer, whether it was about food or music or activities or clothing—you name it. I’d forgotten who I was at my core.

Anything different was dangerous. Anything different caused a fight. Anything different was embarrassing, cringey or "hippie" (his word for anything I did, that didn’t match his view of "normal")

But this is not what today’s piece is about.

I actually wanted to talk about what comes—and what came—after the breakup.

Tragic at first. But still the best thing that could’ve happened to me!

A blessing!

And even though a breakup is normally seen as an end, which it absolutely is.

It is also a beginning.

The beginning of a new era in your life.

The beginning of waking up.

The beginning of healing.

And for me, first and foremost, it was the beginning of the journey back to myself. Back to the real me, and back to my inner child, who desperately needed freeing.

Healing is a weird thing.

It’s a roller coaster, but you’re blindfolded, so you can’t really see anything ahead of you.

You’re just sitting there, holding on for dear life. Everything is scary on the first round. You don’t know how to hold yourself, or which way to tilt or lean so as not to get thrown around uncontrollably in that carriage of yours.

Then you’ll start noticing patterns. You figure out one curve on the next round, and you’re proud of yourself (rightfully so!). You celebrate the win (as you should!), and then you get thrown against the wall so hard you can't breathe in the next curve.

Fun, isn’t it?

Okay, I promise I’ll get to the point now.

I was scrolling through my phone’s gallery this morning, and I found a photo which brought a wide ear-to-ear grin to my face.

It was a tiny little moment, where I flipped off the version of me who was forced to be anxious, rigid and fearful.

It was a moment I figured out how to navigate one of the curves on that ride. I finally did what I really, truly wanted, not worrying about getting scolded for being cringey and whatnot.

So, fast forward a couple of months after the breakup.

I spent the summer working in a tiny little town in Norway with my friend. One day, we were just walking around town, and I saw a piece of cake in the window of a little bakery. I was instantly drawn to it.

I bought the slice for takeaway, to have later after dinner.

But as soon as I was handed the box and we walked on, I swear to god it whispered, “Eat meeee! Eat me nowwww!”

I convinced myself that it wasn’t sensible, it wasn't "normal" and started looking for reasons why I shouldn’t do it – no spoon, no napkins, no water to wash my fingers, yadayadayada.

But the voice speaking to me was the well-trained, fake one. The actress.

It took all my strength, but I ignored it.

So there I was, standing in the middle of a street, munching on the creamy, soft, lush deliciousness.

I basically inhaled it.

And it was the most glorious piece of cake I’ve ever eaten!

I licked my fingers clean, taking my time with the middle one, flipping him off in my mind.

I hummed and murmured as I devoured the piece, savouring every bite up until the crumbs I licked from my fingers.

My friend next to me laughed out loud and asked if we needed a moment alone, but the cake was gone before I knew it.

Clearly, this wasn’t about the cake, because I bought a slice of the same cake a week later, and it was kind of alright, but definitely not the best.

This was about the fact that I listened to what I—me! and only me—wanted to do. I did what my heart asked for without giving in to the trained, stiff, grey personality I’d adopted over the years.

And with that, I learned to listen to my heart a little bit better. I learned to navigate another curve.

I learned that sometimes… healing is a piece of cake.