When it Stings to See Love, Keep Going

Victory over fear isn't simple.

It’s not like the OG Mario game—where you dodge fireballs, stomp on turtles, jump over countless gaps, and, after a few stressful moments of pixelated chaos, slide down the flagpole to safety. There’s no castle waiting for you at the end. No fireworks or “You did it!” moment.

Most times, the screen just reboots, and you realize you’ve simply leveled up—only to face an entirely different battle: doubt.

Unlike fear, doubt is a tricky thing to catch because it doesn’t always whisper from inside your head. Sometimes, it comes in the voices of others.

Earlier this week, I published an article about fear—specifically, the fear of sharing my happiness. Matt has brought so much light into my life—the love we share has been healing. For a long time, that felt almost too good to say out loud. I worried that naming my joy might make it fragile, that sharing it might invite skepticism.

But I decided that love—rare, healing love—deserves a chance to be seen. Hitting publish felt like an act of defiance. A way of saying, this is real, and it matters to me, and I refuse to hide it.

I don’t know what I thought would happen when I pushed my joy out of that nest.

But what did happen was mostly a wave of support and celebration—people cheering me on, resonating with my words, sharing in my joy.

And then, tucked between those messages, was something else. A flurry of emails and comments—not just questioning what I had shared, but echoing the exact doubts I had already battled within myself. The fears I thought I had stepped through finding their way back to me, now wearing different voices.

Like one reader who wrote:

“I’ve enjoyed following you for a very long time. However, lately, it seems you’re preaching that true peace and joy after divorce ONLY come when you find another person to be happy with. For those of us who find peace and joy in ourselves, this makes me sad.”

For a moment, I paused.

I had thought I was clear—that my joy stood on its own, that my peace was evident. But I also knew that words don’t always land the way we intend. People filter things through their own experiences, their own past and current wounds.

And so I sat with it. And you know what I realized?

This wasn’t really about me at all.

I could feel that this wasn’t just casual judgment or jealousy. There was something real behind it—something deeper. The message didn’t feel like an attack or an attempt to tear me down. It felt like it came from someone who cared, who was fighting for peace on their own. Someone who was worried that my words meant healing only happens when you find love again.

And that’s when I recognized the hurt behind it.

It felt familiar, like a place I had lived before.

At the beginning of my divorce, I couldn’t stand to see public displays of affection. I mean, they made me crawl out of my skin. Love songs made me irrationally angry. I rolled my eyes at squealing engagement videos. When people kissed on TV, I would leave the room or look away.

Any display of warmth or affection felt like a personal attack. I wasn’t just indifferent to it—I was furious at it.

Because accepting that the love in front of me was real meant also confronting something painful inside of me: that I deeply longed for it. That I didn’t have it.

And that maybe, I never would.

But now, looking back, I see it for what it really was.

It wasn’t anger. It was grief.

It was the ache of wanting something so badly that the sight of it in someone else’s hands felt unbearable. It was scarcity, frustration, and fear—fear that love had passed me by, fear that I was somehow unlovable, fear that I would always be on the outside looking in.

And that’s why I responded to this reader with kindness. Not because her message felt particularly great to receive…but because I recognized her pain. I had lived it.

I knew exactly what it felt like to see love and not be able to receive it—to have it register not as beauty but as loss.

Every bit of her words felt familiar to me, and I understood the defeat she was feeling.

Healing a broken heart, at least for me, did not look like a victory march. It looked like sitting in discomfort, getting to know my anger, my fear, my doubt—walking with them long enough to understand what they were trying to tell me.

Sometimes they had lessons I needed. And sometimes, all they had to say was:

“Hey, you’re still here. You’re breathing.”

I remember feeling so damn frustrated—sitting in the weight of my emotions, wondering if I would ever feel whole again. If I would ever rejoin the land of the living. I wanted to rush the process, to fast-forward through the ache, to just arrive at peace and be done with it.

And maybe that’s where you are right now.

If seeing love stings, if healing feels invisible, if you’re trapped in the waiting, I want you to hear this:

It won’t always feel this way.

And I can hear you right now, shaking your head—“You don’t know that. You don’t know my life.”

And you’re right. I can’t guarantee your circumstances will change. But your resilience will.

And you will.

One day, you’ll wake up, and the weight won’t feel as heavy. Maybe you’ll get halfway through your day before realizing—holy crap, I didn’t cry last night. And I haven’t been sad all morning.

And in that moment, pride will swell in your heart. Because you’ll realize, in real time—you are healing.

You’ll move through your day a little lighter. That anger won’t show up as often as it did. Eventually, your skepticism will soften into hope.

You’ll smile. Not because you forced yourself to, but because something inside you finally let go.

And before you know it, you’ll find yourself back in the world again—balanced, whole, and free.

And when that happens, there won’t be fireworks. No castle waiting at the end. But you won’t need one, because everything you need, including love, already exists inside of you.

Maybe you don’t want to believe me right now.

Maybe this all feels like a lot of hot air from someone who already has what you’re hoping to find.

If my love story presses on something tender inside of you, please know that I understand. And while we are standing on different sides of this thing, I am cheering for you. Not only that—but I am excited to see your story unfold.

Because I already know—one day soon, the weight is going to lift.

Love won’t sting. It won’t hurt to look at. And then, when you’re ready, you’ll let it back in. Not just love from others. Love for yourself. And that’s when you’ll know—you have made it home.

Not because you found somebody to fill in the gap.

Not because life magically fell into place.

But because you did the hardest thing of all.

You hurt, and you just kept going.

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Dear friends,

It means the world to me that you’re here. Fear often tells me to hold back, but sharing these pieces of my heart is my way of pushing past it, step by step.

I’ll always keep my words open and accessible because encouragement shouldn’t come with a pay wall.

For those of who volunteer your financial support, thank you for helping me continue this journey. Thank you for keeping the lights on, and most especially for showing up alongside me in this process of growth.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine