Is This What Healing Actually Looks Like?

Is This What Healing Actually Looks Like?

Written by Sophia Horowitz

I always imagined that if I ever wrote something this personal, it would start with a question. Carrie Bradshaw style. Something like: When your heart breaks, do you rebuild it—or do you redecorate? Perhaps now is the time to cut bangs? But I guess I should introduce myself before we get there.

Hi. I’m Sophia. I’m 21 years old, a screenwriter and director, and I come from a very small town in Pennsylvania where being a band kid wasn’t just a phase—it was my lifestyle. I’m five feet tall, goofy by nature, and will take any excuse to dance around a room or pick up an instrument. I rewatch Sex and the City and Friends on an almost spiritual loop, and I am deeply, unapologetically devoted to sweet treats. If there’s a new bakery, I will find it. Probably twice.

So why give this girl a blog? Trust me, I asked myself the same thing.

I’ve been a writer for as long as I can remember. Writing has always been the way I process things—the way I understand emotions that don’t quite make sense yet. And whether I like it or not, my work has always been rooted in love. As a kid, I was a hopeless romantic, inhaling every rom-com ever made, convinced that one day someone would truly see me. As I got older, my writing shifted—to grief, to the loss of love, to self-love and imposter syndrome as a modern woman. Then to modern relationships and that nagging question: are we all chasing the wrong thing? Somewhere along the way, I started writing about my own love, too.

I’ve had two real relationships. One in high school that taught me the importance of my voice and trusting my gut—a woman’s instinct is rarely wrong, and honestly, it’s a little goddess-like. Like some days, I start to believe I may actually be a psychic. The second came in college. My first true love. It showed me what an equal partnership could look like: two people growing individually while moving forward together.

And then, at the end of last year, it ended. Abruptly. After two and a half years, he walked into my room one night and called it off. No warning. No real explanation. It was finals week. A few weeks after our anniversary trip. After promises of time. 

As someone fiercely independent with what we can call trust issues, I don’t let many people in. To have one of the few who truly knew me—who had seen me at my most vulnerable—just walk away was devastating. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I cried constantly. I had never grieved a living person before, and no one tells you how disorienting that is. How do you move on when the person still exists? When you could theoretically run into them on the street? And then, when you do run into them on the street 4 times a day? 

I’m better now. Not because the ending made sense — it didn’t. There were things he never said, feelings he kept to himself, and truths I discovered later that quietly rearranged the story. But after I assessed the rubble, the damage made more sense. I need someone who doesn’t slowly check out while still holding my hand. I deserve someone who invites me into their fears instead of hiding them.

I’m not here to air the private details of that relationship. But after winter break—spent in what can only be described as a pseudo woodland retreat, because my house is genuinely in the middle of nowhere—I slowly crawled back to myself. When I returned to school, I was still unsteady, still haunted by memories in the same room where my heart had shattered. I knew I needed something new. Something that was mine.

So I started a challenge I’d been toying with for a while: one new thing a week. Easy, right? At any spare moment, I already go on what I call “adventures”—exploring a new neighborhood, trying a new restaurant, usually a bakery. Growing up with so little diversity, I grab this city by the balls and explore it every chance I get.  So I decided to fully commit, every week, to one new thing that daunts me a bit. I’ve been doing it for almost two months now, and I can honestly say it’s changed my life. It gave me my spark back.

And that’s where this blog comes in.

I’m not perfect. I’m not your go-to breakup advice guru. But I do know a thing or two about rebuilding yourself—about finding joy again, about trying new things even when your heart still feels tender. Because, trust me, it’s terrifying to show up as who you truly are. I’m still learning how to do that myself, especially since I haven’t been single since I was 19—and 19-year-old me was nowhere near this confident or this stylish. This blog will be a weekly dive into what I try and what I learn, from new experiences and friendships to cautiously tiptoeing back into dating.  Because how the hell do people do this? And why am I suddenly overthinking eye contact?

So this is for anyone feeling a little lost, a little heartbroken, a little bored, or stuck in a rut. This is for us—to be okay with being a little foolish, to try new things, to make new memories. I’m only 21. I’ve got a long way to go. And honestly? I can’t wait to see where next week takes me.