Embracing the Hurt We Can't Explain– The Deeper Comfort That Stories Can’t Offer
Hello Lovely Souls,
We’ve all been there — caught in the aftermath of a rupture with someone we care about. Whether it’s a friend, a partner, or a loved one, and whether it gets resolved or not, the hurt that lingers can feel intense: confusion, disappointment, defensiveness, frustration, grief, and anger.
With so many emotions moving through, it makes sense that our body and mind go into self-protection mode.
Sometimes that looks like tight shoulders or shallow breathing. Sometimes it looks like withdrawing or replaying the moment over and over again. And sometimes, it looks like this:
Trying to figure out why it happened.
Trying to make sense of what went wrong.
Trying to find a story that feels less painful than the silence of not knowing.
In that space, we often shift into rumination, searching for a narrative that helps us feel a little more in control.
It’s something our brains are wired to do. The amygdala — part of the brain involved in emotional processing — works hard to soothe uncertainty by creating meaning from chaos. And in terms of safety, it makes sense.
Big emotions can feel threatening, so the mind rushes in to anchor us — to fix what feels broken by assigning blame, creating order, or filling in the blanks.
We might tell ourselves:
“They must be acting this way because they have unresolved trauma.”
“They misunderstood me and just aren’t willing to hear my side.”
“They’ve always struggled with conflict — this isn’t really about me.”
And those things might even be true.
But they’re also protective stories — soothing explanations that allow us to sidestep the harder truths:
That maybe this relationship wasn’t what we thought it was.
That maybe we feel betrayed or heartbroken.
That maybe we weren’t seen — and that stings.
Or maybe, even though we weren’t at fault, someone now sees us through a lens that doesn't feel true to who we are. That dissonance — between how we see ourselves and how others perceive us — can be painful to sit with, and our minds often do mental gymnastics to resolve it.
And so, we keep searching — trying to find a story that feels safe enough to hold.
Recently, a friend shared with me that they’d had a fight with a colleague they’ve been close with for over a decade. I could feel how tender it was — and how much their mind was working to protect their heart. They named all the reasons their colleague might’ve acted that way. And they weren’t wrong. But in the process, the focus had turned almost entirely outward.
I remembered all the times I’d done the same.
Especially during relationship endings, when I used to spend so much of my energy trying to analyze what happened — building elaborate explanations that helped the story make sense.
But in hindsight, all of that outward focus was a shield.
It helped me avoid looking at the parts of myself that were hurting.
It kept me from sitting with the ache of disappointment, the grief of being misunderstood, the loneliness of not being chosen.
It kept me from acknowledging what was already there – the very thing that my emotions were pointing me toward. It felt safer, but it kept me stuck.
For my friend, what eventually emerged wasn’t about the colleague at all. The conflict had stirred up early memories of feeling alone and unseen — shaped by a childhood where illness, grief, and caregiving had left emotional gaps no one meant to leave.
They had learned to be strong. To push feelings down. To rationalize the pain.
And now, years later, this moment cracked something open.
And here’s the thing: it’s not that rationalizing is wrong.
It’s that it can only take us so far.
Self-protection helps us survive. But healing asks for more than survival.
It asks us to feel what we were once too overwhelmed to feel.
To stop explaining it away.
And to begin listening inward.
So, if you notice yourself spinning in thought — building reasons or stories to soften the blow — here are a few gentle ways to return to yourself:
Instead of “Why did they do that to me?” try: “What’s this bringing up in me right now?”
Instead of searching for a narrative that explains their behaviour, try: “What am I feeling in my body when I think about this? Can I describe the sensations I’m noticing?”
Instead of assigning blame, try: “Is there a younger part of me that’s scared, hurt, or needing comfort?”
Instead of rushing to resolve or fix it, try: “Can I allow this to just be here for a moment?”
Instead of only asking “Why did this happen?” also ask: “What do I want to do with what’s here now?”
Clarity doesn’t always come from thinking harder.
Sometimes it arrives when we slow down and offer presence to what we’d rather avoid.
Not to fix it or make it go away — but to honour that it’s there.
That we’re here.
And we’re learning to meet ourselves with more compassion, even in the hardest moments.
And that reconnection?
It’s what helps us continue showing up in the world — led by our values, rather than our hurt.
What offered my friend the most relief that day wasn’t a new theory or a clearer answer — it was the moment they paused and let the hurt speak. When they connected the sadness and anger in the present to the pain from their past, something softened.
They didn’t need to figure it out anymore. Being with what was there — letting it be witnessed, even briefly, with compassion — created space to breathe. To reconnect to themselves.
And maybe that’s the deeper comfort we’re truly searching for — not a story that explains the hurt, but a space where it finally feels safe enough to be felt.
With heartfelt gratitude,
Christina
