The Weight of an Unseen Bruise

Why some kinds of pain don’t leave, and what it means when they start to define us?

Image created by Very Personal Growth

Sometimes, when I see someone talk about how deeply loved and safe they feel in their relationship, a quiet ache rises in my chest. Not envy. Not joy. Just this hollow thud — like a bruise I forgot I had until something brushed against it.

Before I can think my way out of it, that voice is already there: You’ll never have that.

And the worst part? I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want someone else’s joy to echo my absence. But it does. And every time it does, I wonder — why this? Why is this the one wound that never quite heals?

There are heartbreaks I’ve healed from — like the time I sat alone in my apartment, deleting every message from someone I thought was forever. Jobs I’ve lost that made me question if I was ever good enough. Friendships that ended with silence instead of closure. Big, messy life stuff. But this wound — the one that whispers “you are hard to love “— this one just… stays. It’s quieter now than it used to be, but it hasn’t left. It shadows my joy. It sits quietly behind compliments. It’s there when I think about what I want and instantly edit it down into something more “realistic.”