#lifeexpectation

I saw it when I wasn’t in the mood to notice anything.

I stopped longer than I planned to, right at the edge of the track, lungs still burning, sweat cooling too fast against my skin. My phone was still in my hand, forgotten. When I tilted my head up, I saw the branches above the track, leaves overlapping in their own careless way, and light slipping through the gaps they left behind. It didn’t fall cleanly. It broke itself apart against the branches, splitting into thin lines that scattered across the ground, catching on the track, my shoes, my shadow. None of it arrived whole. It came down fractured, reshaped, reaching the surface in pieces rather than a single sweep.

And somehow, that was what made it beautiful.

I once stumbled upon an image like that. Sunlight breaking itself into thin strikes as it passed through a canopy of leaves. It felt close to heartbreak. It resembled the damage more than I was comfortable admitting. For the way something once whole can break, and still, somehow, allow beauty to pass through.

I thought about how people talk about heartbreak as if it ruins everything. As if once something breaks, all it can do is cut you. Bleed you out. Leave you less than you were. Breaking means you miscalculated, chose wrong, loved badly. But watching those rays break themselves apart just to reach the earth, I wondered if broken things don’t always mean damage.

When my heart cracked, nothing obvious happened at first. Life went on in its usual way. Life kept moving. Coffee still went cold. Traffic lights changed on time. Orders were called out behind counters. Someone laughed at the next table. Songs still played in cafés, half-heard over clinking cups and conversations that weren’t mine. People moved through their routines without noticing anything had changed. Whatever stopped was contained to me. The pain came much later, after I stopped turning it inward. In empty seats. In messages I almost sent. In the way certain afternoons felt longer than they used to. The anger didn’t come right away. It arrived late, after I was done blaming myself. It showed up when I realized how much I had swallowed just to keep something going. How often I downplayed my own discomfort so things wouldn’t become “get complicated.” How I trained myself to read neglect as patience, and disregard as emotional restraint.

What broke wasn’t just a relationship. It was my instinct to give. My trust in my own read of things. The idea that effort mattered at all. No one prepares you for the humiliation of offering yourself and getting distance in return—evasions, excuses, and silence treated as peace.

I didn’t feel “stronger.” I felt altered.

Love didn’t disappear after that. It changed its posture. It stopped arriving all at once. Instead, It found its way to me in pieces. A stranger holding the door, a familiar song sounding different, the relief of finally sleeping through the night. None of it fixed anything. But it reminded me that I was still here, still open enough for something to reach me.

That’s what no one tells you about breaking. You don’t close.The cracks redirect what comes in. You change how the world reaches you.

I started noticing beauty differently after that. I paid attention in a different way. In light cutting through leaves. In laughter that surprised me. In mornings that didn’t hurt as much as the night before. These moments didn’t erase what happened. They lived beside it.

And maybe that’s the point.

We don’t return to who we were before the break. That person doesn’t exist in the same way anymore. What replaces it isn’t weaker—just altered by what it’s lived through. The light that reaches us now comes filtered, altered by everything we’ve survived.

So if you’re carrying broken pieces, don’t rush to seal them. There’s no deadline for becoming anything else. Don’t rush to become “whole” again just to make others comfortable. You don’t owe anyone a finished version of yours. Let the light pass through as it is. Let it fall where it may. Light finds you anyway.