Should Love Hurt?

You wake up in the middle of the night, your heart racing as if something vital has just vanished. For a brief moment, confusion reigns; you wonder where you are. Then it hits you hard: they’re gone. The silence feels deafening, heavy, almost suffocating. Despite your exhaustion, sleep slips away, and with each attempt to rest, your mind replays every conversation—what you said, what they said, and the things left unsaid.

Getting out of bed feels like an impossible task. What awaits you? Another day spent missing their presence. During daylight, you might wear a mask of functionality, perhaps even sharing a smile. But when night falls? That’s when the truth creeps back in.

The relentless questions. The anxiety mounts. The quiet panic that you keep hidden. Are they thinking of you? Have they moved on effortlessly? Did you ever really mean anything to them? That agony doesn’t just load a burden on your heart; it seeps into your very being, whispering that you weren’t enough, that you’ve lost something incredibly rare, and that you’ll never find that depth of connection again.

What makes it worse is that even if they have hurt you, disrespected you, or weren’t the right fit, the desire to have them back still lingers. If you could pose any question to the universe, one that could transform everything, the common theme emerges: “Will my ex return?” This isn’t merely a romantic curiosity; it echoes a desperate need for survival. Above all else, you want to feel enough.

I’ve seen this vulnerability up close with a colleague I’ll call Carl, who faced a painful divorce. He calmly stated that they had grown apart and expressed his readiness to move on. On the surface, he appeared fine. Yet a week later, I entered the office and instantly sensed something was off. Desks were barren; the air was thick with sorrow. A note stated counselors were available after a colleague’s sudden death. Carl had taken his own life, and the most haunting part? His last words to me were, “I’m ready to move on.”

Love doesn’t live only in your heart; it’s intricately tied to your brain, where chemicals such as dopamine and oxytocin forge connections, create cravings, and foster dependency, helping us form attachments. When you fall for someone, your body is flooded with these chemicals, similar to addiction. Thus, when they leave, your experience shifts from sadness to actual withdrawal pain.

That chest-tightening ache? The obsession? The compulsion to check your phone? These feelings are not signs of weakness; they stem from chemistry. Now, imagine someone offers you a pill—one single pill to obliterate all that pain: the longings, the obsessions, the memories. You could be free. Yet, here’s a truth many avoid acknowledging: countless people would hesitate. They’d clutch that pill, fully aware it could end their suffering, and still choose to say, “No. I want to try again. I believe they’re the ones.”

Even if that “love” inflicted anxiety, insecurity, or cost them their own sense of peace, society has conditioned us to equate love with intensity. We’ve learned that if it doesn’t hurt, it’s not genuine; if you don’t fight for it, you’re surrendering. But that’s a distortion of true love. What this really points to is attachment and fear—an addiction masquerading as something sacred.

Real love should never leave you doubting your worth. It shouldn’t make you feel small or emotionally abandoned under the guise of complexity. Authentic love is patient, kind, and safe. If what you’re grieving doesn’t embody these traits, then you’re not mourning a person; you’re mourning the version of them you hoped they could become.

So no, you don’t truly miss them; you yearn for the feelings they sparked in you. You miss the future you envisioned together and the emotional highs you became accustomed to. Healing is possible—it starts the moment you choose to stop chasing those fleeting feelings and instead start choosing yourself. That’s where genuine love can unfold.