SheKnowsNow

Love is one of the most beautiful experiences we’re capable of as humans—and one of the most brutal when it ends. When love falls apart, the damage often goes far beyond heartbreak. For some of us—especially those who feel deeply, carry past wounds, or lack a strong support system—that emotional collapse can become something far more dangerous. It can fracture the mind itself.

It’s not just the person you lose—it’s the version of yourself you were with them. The imagined future. The inside jokes. The Sunday mornings. The dream of growing old together. All of it, suddenly gone. When love fails, it can twist you in ugly, unrecognizable ways.

At first, it’s just grief. A longing that wraps itself around your chest and refuses to let go. The world loses color. Sleep becomes elusive. Food loses its taste. Days blur into nights filled with racing thoughts and silent screams. You try to carry on, but the pain loops endlessly. The mind, desperate for relief or answers, begins to bend.

And then—something shifts. Reality starts to feel less real. Your thoughts grow louder, more intrusive, sometimes terrifying. You begin to question what’s true. Paranoia creeps in. You start to believe the pain is speaking to you through signs, strangers, even the walls.

Three years ago, I was diagnosed with schizophrenia.

People hear that word and often form silent judgments. But let me tell you what it really meant for me.

It meant losing the life I had carefully built—piece by piece, until nothing felt familiar. It meant losing my grip on reality. It meant sleepless nights, overwhelming fear, confusion, and a deep, unshakable shame I didn’t know how to explain.

At the lowest point of my life, I had no choice but to leave behind everything I knew and step into the unknown to receive the treatment I so desperately needed.

If rock bottom had a name, this was it. I didn’t just lose things—I lost myself. There were days I didn’t recognize the person in the mirror. Nights when I wasn’t sure I’d ever escape the darkness. I felt abandoned. I felt isolated. And I was angry. Angry that so much loss came crashing down all at once, without warning or mercy. It felt like my life had been erased.

But somehow, I was still here.

And even in that place—God never left me. His presence wasn’t loud. There were no dramatic miracles or instant turnarounds. But He was there: In the stillness. In the grief. In the quiet moments of survival. In the slow, unseen work of healing.

God didn’t fix everything overnight. But He held me together when I was falling apart. He became my anchor when my mind was a storm. He reminded me, again and again, that my worth isn’t measured by my productivity, perfection, or how put-together I appear to others.

Within that darkness, a strange kind of rebirth began. Healing wasn’t linear. It was slow, messy, and full of relapses. But with each wave of pain, something inside was being refined. The illusions fell away. I started to see myself more clearly—not just as someone who was hurt, but as someone capable of profound resilience.

The battle to overcome a failed love is one of the hardest we fight. Not because we lose someone else, but because we are forced to return to ourselves. We have to rebuild trust—not just in others, but in our own hearts, in our own instincts. We have to learn to choose peace over chaos, solitude over settling, authenticity over attachment.

Over the course of four months following my diagnosis, the symptoms that once ruled my life slowly began to fade. I had made a full, unwavering commitment to my healing—because I came to understand something vital: No one was coming to save me—except myself, and God.

I regained clarity. I found peace. I survived. Not through a magic fix—but through radical surrender, deep inner work, and divine grace.

I’ve learned that God can redeem even the most shattered parts of a story. And I’ve learned that human love has limits. It fades. It fails. It forgets. It is often conditional—tied to how useful, easy, or convenient you are.

But God’s love? It doesn’t walk away when you’re hard to love. It doesn’t change when your mind is unwell or your life falls apart. It doesn’t retreat when you’re broken, angry, or lost.

There is no love more faithful than God’s.

So if your life has fallen apart… If you’ve been misunderstood, written off, or made to feel like you’re too much— Please hear this:

There is still grace for you. There is still a future. There is still a God who sees every part of you—and chooses to stay.

I am living proof.