Toxic Love vs. True Love (and the 10 steps to crawl back from wherever the hell you lost yourself)

inspired by Brene Brown and the inconvenient truth that healing takes practice, not just Pinterest quotes
First, watch this video by Brene Brown

Let me just start by saying:
If you have ever found yourself Googling “Is love supposed to feel like this?” at 3:07 AM with swollen eyes and your phone on 4%,
congratulations.
You have officially enrolled in the masterclass titled:

"Toxic Love: The Free Trial That Charges Your Soul."

And let me tell you something that Brene Brown and a thousand quiet journals will whisper if you sit still long enough—there is a difference between pain and love. I do not care how good the chemistry is, how deep the trauma bond feels, or how many playlists they made you on Spotify. If your nervous system is in fight-or-flight every time they text you “can we talk?” … that is not intimacy. That is warfare.

True love does not make you question your worth every 10 days.
Toxic love will have you explaining your existence like you’re pitching a Netflix series.

So how do you know the difference?

Whew.
That question alone deserves a couch and co-pay.

But for the record, true love will say:

“Hey, I noticed you’re off. You good?”
Toxic love will say:
“I don’t like your tone. Fix it.”

True love makes space.
Toxic love makes excuses.
True love is uncomfortable in service of clarity.
Toxic love is comfortable—in its manipulation.

And yet... and yet, some of us stay. Because leaving feels like failure. Or loneliness. Or like trying to rebuild IKEA furniture with no instructions and half the screws stripped.

Which brings me to the question I’ve been sitting with in the rubble of another almost-love:

Is there a way back?

And more importantly:

What does “back” even mean?
To them? To you? To who you were before the breaking?

Here are ten brutally honest, non-Instagrammable, step-by-step possibilities to crawl (limp, cry, claw) back to love—even if that love is just the version of you who finally stopped begging.

1. Call It What It Was.

Not almost, not complicated, not bad timing. Call it what it was.
Gaslighting. Breadcrumbing. Co-dependency. Trauma reenactment.
Name it. All of it. You cannot heal what you refuse to identify.

2. Delete the Highlight Reel.

Stop romanticizing the 7 days it felt like a music video and start remembering the 23 days it felt like a hostage situation.

3. Go No Contact (for real this time).

Yes, even if their mother still texts you Happy Birthday.
Block their playlist. Block the birthday. Block the pattern.
The nervous system needs a detox—not a DM.

4. Write the Ugly Truth.

Not the poem. Not the post. Not the caption.
The truth. The stuff you do not want anyone to know. Especially yourself.
Bleed it out. Burn it after if you have to. But write it.

5. Grieve the Fictional Version.

You’re not just mourning the person—you’re mourning who you thought they were. Who you thought you could be in their eyes. That future you built? Let it go. It was never real.

6. Relearn What Safety Feels Like.

If the absence of chaos feels boring to you—baby, that’s your trauma talking. True love might feel slow at first. Steady. Uneventful. Trust it anyway.

7. Give Your Friends Permission to Drag You.

The ones who watched it unravel in real-time? Let them speak. Let them hold you accountable. Let them remind you that survival looks better on you than submission.

8. Stop Trying to Win the Breakup.

Healing is not a race. You do not have to post a new boo or a glow-up reel to prove you’re “doing fine.” You’re not. And that’s okay.

9. Forgive Yourself for Staying Too Long.

And for answering the phone. And for believing that “sorry” meant change. And for confusing consistency with crumbs. You loved. Fully. That is not a weakness. That is a capacity.

10. Start Loving the Version of You That Stayed.

Because she wanted to believe. She gave grace. She learned the hard way. And now—now—she gets to rebuild without asking for permission.

Listen.
Coming back from a love that dismantled you is not about finding someone new. It is about finding someone true. And sometimes, that someone is… you.

I know. I know. That sucks.
It would be easier to blame them.
To write another poem. To take another trip. To post another selfie.

But here is the truth I wish I learned sooner:

The way back to love?
Starts with the way out of self-abandonment.

And if the only person you learn to trust again is your own reflection—
well, maybe that is where love was waiting the whole damn time.

—
Still in the healing, but at least I got the words for it,
Queen Sheba
2025 Grammy®-Nominated Spoken Word Poet
Author of Clemency
Architect of her own emotional escape route

Bitch.

###

I was inspired to write the poem below the flyer; and if you’re anywhere near Philly, this weekend, come to the show. It’s always special when I’m emotional.

STOP TRYING TO WIN THE BREAKUP
(THE SPORTS EDITION)

Heartbreak turned me into a full-time athlete,
warming up with excuses, stretching across timelines,
conditioning my ego like it was training camp.

I studied film — your texts, your posts —
running plays in my head at 2 A.M.,
pausing, rewinding, slow-motion zoom
on where I should have pressed tighter defense,
where I should have fouled harder,
where I should have benched my own mouth.

I treated love like a championship series —
best out of seven —
forgetting that some seasons end with no trophy,
only bruises that do not show up in the box score.

I kept checking the stat line like it mattered:
who called first,
who double-tapped faster,
who blocked, who ghosted, who subbed in a new player.
But heartbreak does not publish stats —
it publishes silence.

Every friend became a sideline commentator:
“Run the zone defense, guard your heart.”
But how do you guard a home court
that has already been rented out to memory?

You were never an opponent —
you were a teammate I kept fouling.
We lost the locker room long before tip-off.
Still, I replayed our arguments like instant replays,
arguing with referees that no longer exist,
flagging technicals against myself.

And yet, I wanted the crowd.
I wanted applause for “moving on.”
Selfies became my highlight reel.
Petty became my sports agent.
Grief became my trainer —
pushing me until my muscles shook with exhaustion.

The truth?
I was never competing with you.
I was running suicides against my own shadow,
out of breath, still calling it progress.

I wanted to be MVP of the breakup,
most valuable pain-bearer,
hoisting an invisible trophy no one asked for.
I wanted the sports page headline:
“QUEEN SHEBA TRIUMPHS IN OVERTIME.”
Instead, I got the obituary of an ego —
small print, buried on page nine.

Here is the playbook I refused to read:
you’re breaking your own hearts, waiting for them to realize who you are.
Plural, because this is not one game —
this is a league of losses,
a whole season of self-inflicted injuries.

I taped up my pride like a sprained ankle.
I iced my anger but never addressed the fracture.
I kept waiting for a trade —
for destiny to send me somewhere better,
forgetting that healing does not come with a signing bonus.

And the double-entendre is this:
every arena echoes when it is empty.
Every whistle sounds lonely when the game is already over.
Every bench grows cold when the starters have left.

I thought winning the breakup meant outscoring you,
outrunning you, outlasting you —
but the real victory is sitting in the stands of my own soul,
watching the game tape with honesty,
admitting:
love is not supposed to be a competition.
It is supposed to be a collaboration.

So I hang up the jersey.
I retire the number.
I walk away from the scoreboard.
Because if you keep trying to win the breakup —
keep treating grief like a tournament —
you will eventually forget the rules of love,
forget the joy of the game,
forget that teamwork is the point —
before you are left being nothing but a rebound.

-Queen Sheba
September 11, 2025
— No pun intended.

Toxic Love vs. True Love (and the 10 steps to crawl back from wherever the hell you lost yourself)