Healing from Love and Longing: When the Ache Leads Us Home

In front of my family’s library, I stood small among towering shelves. I did not yet know how those stories would one day teach me what it means to love, to long, and to call a place home.

Attachment theory says our patterns are formed in childhood, shaping how we reach for love, pull away from it, or hold on too tightly. But theory only matters when it moves through our own lives.

Lately, I have been noticing how these patterns rise in me, leaving me tender, reflective, and also strangely grateful. Each ache has become part of a healing, a reminder that love and longing are not only about others, but also about the relationship I continue to build with myself.

The Seeds of Lightness and the Map Back to Myself

In my twenties, three books marked me, though I did not fully understand them at the time: The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera, The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho, and later, Conversations with God by Neale Donald Walsch.

Kundera explored the tension between lightness and weight, showing how freedom can feel untethered while meaning can feel like a burden. Coelho offered a guide, reminding me that the treasure we seek is always within, and that every outward journey is really a return to self. Walsch brought the dialogue inward, teaching that every choice is either love or fear, and that remembering who we are is the way home.

At the time, I underlined their pages and carried them in my bag. Now, at nearly fifty, I can see how they have been shaping me all along, their words like seeds that slowly grew into a map I had been following without even knowing.

The books that marked my twenties. Kundera's paradox of weight and lightness, Coelho's map of omens and treasure, and later, Walsch's reminder that every choice is between love and fear.

My Son’s Words

On the last day of a trip to Montreal, my son looked at me and said softly, “You always leave.”

The words pierced me because they carried truth. I had him when I was sixteen, and now he is twice that age. I never abandoned him, but perhaps I did leave in other ways: stepping back when life felt overwhelming, reaching for lightness when I longed to breathe, protecting myself by keeping part of me guarded.

Leaving has often been my shield. And in that moment, he handed me a mirror I could not turn away from.

Others have noticed it too. A friend once admitted that it hurt when I disappeared, until she finally stopped taking it personally. Another gently told me she would understand if I chose to spend my birthday alone. Those closest to me have long known this pattern, my tendency to step back when the world feels too close.

His words lingered long after he said them. They echoed in the choices I made, in the times I convinced myself I was moving toward growth when in truth I was still running.

When Running Was No Longer Possible

When I was unhappy in my marriage, I flew to Bali. I immersed myself in retreats and healing spaces, convincing myself I was growing. But I was also escaping.

Then the pandemic came. Borders closed. Retreats were cancelled. There was nowhere left to go but inward.

If escape had still been possible, I might have stayed. But in that forced stillness, the cracks became visible. With no airport to flee to, I had to sit with what was breaking.

The Mirror of D

In someone I will call D, I saw my pattern reflected back to me.

Before meeting him, I scrubbed myself raw and painted myself bright, hoping to be enough. I was not only preparing for him, I was trying to mend an old wound by being seen through his eyes.

He did try. He made plans ahead of time, thoughtful and kind, choosing a place with care, shifting us outside when I asked. He even sent me a playlist, Vienna among the songs, as if he was explaining himself through music. Each melody carried conflict and tenderness, the push and pull of closeness and distance. For a moment, it felt as though we were readying for takeoff, a soundtrack to a new beginning.

But the landing was never steady. He touched down gently, but lifted again before we had the chance to find our footing together.

With D, the same dance replayed itself. He drifted, I reached. He went quiet, and I longed for closeness. In time, I stopped. And in that stopping, I saw it was not about him or me being the villain. The push and pull was the wound itself, circling through us both like a plane that could not stay grounded.

I had been waiting on the runway, preparing again and again for an arrival that never quite stayed. Each time the engines quieted, I hoped we might walk steadily together, yet he lifted off before we could truly ground. In the exhaustion of waiting, I finally understood: home was never in his landing, it was in my own.

Perhaps the song was never only Vienna. At times, it was Fix You, the sound of me reaching to soothe what felt tender in him, hoping my presence could mend what was fragile. Other times, it was A Fragile Thing, too delicate to hold, too fleeting to last. In the end, the music was less about us as two, and more about the reflection it offered me, a soundtrack of longing, healing, and the quiet truth that some connections arrive only to guide us back to ourselves.

Getting ready that evening, carrying hope and care into the meeting.

The Three Mirrors

And yet, even endings carry mirrors. They remind us of the stories we have read, the truths we have carried, and the reflections that continue to guide us.

Kundera’s characters reflected us: I was Tereza, longing for rooted love, carrying weight with seriousness. At times, I was also Sabina, craving freedom, unwilling to be caged. At times, he reminded me of Tomas, drawn to intimacy yet uncertain of its weight, reaching for freedom more often than closeness.

Walsch’s dialogue gave me language for the same truth: every moment between us was either love or fear. I could not choose for him. I could only keep choosing love for myself.

Coelho’s parable reminded me of Santiago, walking across deserts in search of treasure. I too have followed omens, moving across countries, creating new work, shedding what no longer fit. And like Santiago, I learned that true love never asks you to abandon your Personal Legend. If someone cannot walk beside you, you must keep walking toward your treasure.

When Pain Has Meaning

What if the ache is not punishment, but direction?

Kundera showed me the paradox of weight and lightness. Walsch reminded me that every moment is a choice between love and fear. Coelho revealed that the treasure has never been outside, it has always been within.

My son gave me the clearest mirror: leaving has been my shadow. And now I see that the ache was never only about who would stay, but whether I would. The way home is here, in me, and this is where my healing from love and longing continues.

The ache was never about who would stay, but whether I would. The way home is here, in me.