The Funky Psychology of Breaking Up and Moving On

Posted September 2Sep 2

We all like to imagine that we are rational adults, capable of handling our affairs with poise and firmness. Yet when it comes to ending a relationship, many of us suddenly resemble timid interns trying to tell the boss we accidentally erased the company’s entire financial database. We know we want out, we fantasize about escape routes, and yet the moment of truth keeps slipping away.

There we are, holding our breath, inventing new deadlines like “after the holidays,” “after their birthday,” or “after my next reincarnation.”

The great paradox is that we are often less afraid of a lifetime of mediocrity than of one single hour of sobbing, wailing, and tissue pyramids.

We imagine ourselves not as people pursuing personal fulfillment, but as potential destroyers of civilizations. In our melodramatic inner cinema, our partner does not merely cry; they dissolve into operatic chaos, while we sit front row, guilt-ridden and munching on stale popcorn. No wonder we hesitate.

Why end a relationship when staying miserable forever feels so much safer?

There is also the charming possibility that by uttering the words “it’s over,” we will unleash a fury of biblical proportions. Some of us secretly believe our partner may accuse us of being a fraud, a traitor, or perhaps a minor villain in a Dickens novel. Worse still, we imagine furniture flying, crockery shattering, or a sudden re-enactment of a Greek tragedy with us in the role of the hapless victim.

Our unconscious works with a simple binary logic: either we kill them with grief, or they kill us with rage. Shakespeare would have approved.

Of course, sensible arguments rarely have much impact. Telling ourselves “they won’t actually murder us” has about the same effectiveness as telling a person with vertigo that the balcony is structurally sound. Logic bows out while primitive terror takes the stage, reminding us of childhood dramas where fragile parents or terrifyingly angry adults taught us the lethal consequences of disappointing others. Many of us were apprenticed in the art of tiptoeing, learning that our authentic needs could endanger the very survival of those we loved.

Is it any wonder that, as adults, we still hesitate to break bad news, as if announcing a breakup might collapse the planet’s crust?

Our adult selves, however, must eventually accept that disaster has already occurred. The fragile parent who seemed like they would disintegrate if we disappointed them? That was then. The enraged adult who looked ready to wield a hammer after breaking a vase? That too was then. We are no longer three years old, trembling at the sight of oversized humans losing control. We are adults now, allegedly with resources, police numbers, lawyers, and enough sense to survive an angry rant without assuming we’ll be tossed out of a window.

And yet, many of us cling to what might be called “the tyranny of seeming kind.”

It appears kinder to delay, to wait until after the summer holiday, to avoid distressing the person who has already booked the apartment, bought the matching pajamas, and casually mentioned baby names. But staying put to avoid a few hours of unpleasantness often translates into decades of bitterness, sarcasm, emotional withdrawal, and passive-aggressive sighs loud enough to shatter glass.

That is not kindness. That is cowardice in disguise.

The genuine kindness, paradoxically, is to march straight into the storm, even if it means being despised for a while by someone who still loves us. Yes, they will say they will never find anyone like us, which might sound flattering until we remember that “anyone like us” is precisely what they will be relieved to escape once our snide remarks and simmering resentment have had time to ferment. In truth, they will recover.

They will grieve, rage, cry, and then, like resilient human beings everywhere, wake up one morning and realize the sun still rises without us.

We must also entertain the liberating thought that moving on is not a crime against humanity. Ending a relationship does not signal the apocalypse, despite what our childhood terrors whisper. It is, in fact, the adult thing to do when the alternative is to ruin two lives simultaneously. It may hurt in the short term, but like a brutal workout, the sweat and tears eventually yield strength. Besides, martyring ourselves to avoid inflicting pain is not noble; it is absurd. Nobody hands out medals for staying in relationships as a form of emotional hostage negotiation.

So what, then, is the funky psychology of breaking up?

It is the bizarre dance between our craving for personal fulfillment and our phobic avoidance of causing pain. It is the tug-of-war between our inner child, terrified of shattering a parent’s fragile spirit, and our adult selves, who secretly know that people survive worse things than a breakup.

It is the uncomfortable recognition that sometimes we stay not because of love, but because of cowardice disguised as compassion.

When we finally gather the courage, the experience is rarely as catastrophic as our minds predict it to be. Yes, tears will fall. Yes, words may fly sharper than swords. But no, the world will not collapse, nor will we. We might even discover that truth, though painful, is less corrosive than decades of deceit. And perhaps, in a twist of irony, our partner will one day thank us for setting them free from a life of quiet desperation beside someone who stayed only to avoid hurting them.

Ultimately, the funky part is not the breakup itself, but the sheer acrobatics of the mind as it leaps from melodramatic terror to cowardly kindness to martyr-like resignation.

The act of moving on is far less theatrical than the endless rehearsals we perform in our heads. And if there is one thing we owe ourselves and those we once loved, it is to step onto the stage, deliver the lines, and exit with dignity rather than linger indefinitely in the wings, too timid to bow out.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.