Closure Is Overrated in Breakups

We’ve all heard it — “I just need closure.” It sounds evolved. Grounded. Emotionally intelligent. But if we’re being honest, most of the time closure isn’t about healing. It’s about control.

It’s the quiet hope that if we can just get one more conversation, one more explanation, one more perfectly worded apology, the ending will feel different. Cleaner. Fairer. Less humiliating. We tell ourselves we want understanding, but what we really want is to edit the last chapter. We want to adjust the tone. Add context. Maybe even sneak in a plot twist where they suddenly realize our value.

Life doesn’t work like that.

Not every relationship gets a final speech. Not every breakup ends with mutual insight and cinematic clarity. Sometimes the lesson is the ending. Sometimes the way someone walks away is the explanation.

We struggle with that because incomplete narratives make us uncomfortable. Our brains crave resolution. We want the missing piece. The why. But good decision-making — the kind that actually leads to peace — requires tolerating ambiguity. It requires accepting that you may never fully understand someone else’s motives, and that you don’t actually need to.

You don’t need a beautifully structured apology to move forward. You don’t need them to admit they were wrong. You don’t need them to validate your version of events. What you need is acceptance — not of what they did, but of what is.

There’s a difference.

Chasing closure often means staying emotionally attached to someone who already showed you their character. We ignore what was demonstrated and obsess over what might be explained. But explanations don’t override behavior. If someone left carelessly, that carelessness is the closure. If they avoided hard conversations, that avoidance is the answer. If they chose convenience over commitment, believe the choice.

Here’s the part no one likes to admit: sometimes we seek closure because we want reassurance that we mattered. We want proof the relationship was real. But your worth was never dependent on their final text message. 

Peace doesn’t arrive in a perfectly crafted paragraph from them. It arrives in a decision from you.

The final decision to stop rereading old messages.
The final decision to stop rehearsing imaginary conversations.
The final decision to accept that not every story gets tied up neatly (see "The Sopranos").

Closure isn’t something they give you. It’s something you practice.

Most of the time, it looks less like a conversation — and more like moving on without one.

Then of course, some of you claim to want closure because you want one more argument.  LOL! That's a blog post for another day. 

You Can’t Appraise Attachment

Somewhere along the way, we started confusing value with price.

Not the same thing. Not even close.

My dad has lived in the same house for 60 years. Sixty. That’s not an address. That’s a timeline. That’s where birthdays happened, where arguments cooled off on the front porch, where neighbors became family, where muscle memory can still find the light switch in the dark.

Now the city wants the land to build a park. On paper, it sounds wholesome. Trees. Benches. Joggers pretending they like jogging.

They’re offering him a settlement that’s supposedly “more than market value.” Translation: the spreadsheet says he should be grateful. The spreadsheet has never watched its sons grow up in that living room.

This is the part that fascinates me. Some of the people involved in the process genuinely seem to believe that if the number is high enough, the attachment disappears. Now don't get me wrong. There are some people on the city's acquisition team who truly care and sympathize for those in the neighborhood. They are just doing their jobs. 

But others I've heard seem to think that if I write you a check that you should just happily accept it and move on. And it's not because they are cold-hearted or anything. I'm not getting that vibe. It's because to those few, money solves all problems. Everything has a price.

“He’s getting more than it’s worth.”

According to who? Zillow? A city assessor with a clipboard? "Fair" market value measures square footage. It doesn’t measure memories. That house is the last piece of my late mom that my dad has. And what's "fair" about forcing someone out for a pickleball court to be built where their kitchen once stood?

You can appraise a roof. You cannot appraise 60 years of the lives under it.

And this isn’t just about property. It’s about how we’ve trained ourselves to think in dollar signs in any situation.

I saw a recent Facebook post where a woman named Ayisha Diaz said a man has to provide her an allowance of around $50,000/monthly to date her. Not figuratively. Literally. A financial minimum requirement to qualify for romance.

So now love has a net worth threshold?

Don't get me wrong. If attractiveness was a superpower, then Ayisha would be an Avenger. But it's absolutely ridiculous and immature to make that kind of statement. A man who is willing to lease-to-own a woman will most likely dump her as soon as next year's model comes out.

Somewhere between hustle culture and luxury Instagram aesthetics, we started attaching monetary figures to human worth. If he doesn’t make X, he’s not serious. If she doesn’t have Y lifestyle, she’s settling. If your house is worth more, your loss hurts less. That’s lazy math.

Money is a tool. A powerful one. It buys comfort, security, options. Nobody sane is pretending it doesn’t matter. But it has become the laziest shortcut for measuring importance.

If you love someone, you’ll spend on them.
If you value your home, you’ll take the highest bid.
If you respect yourself, demand a millionaire.

It’s all the same logic. And it misses the point every time.

The reason my dad’s house can’t be reduced to a number is the same reason a relationship shouldn’t be reduced to a balance sheet. Attachment is not transactional. It’s accumulated. Slowly. Quietly. Over time.

There’s a difference between compensation and equivalence. You can compensate someone financially. You cannot make them whole emotionally. It means sometimes the “fair offer” still feels unfair. 

We like numbers because they’re clean. Emotions are messy. Bureaucracies love clean. Humans live in messy.

The irony is, parks are built to create memories. To give families a place to gather. To add quality of life. And in order to build those memories, someone else has to give up theirs.

I’m not arguing cities shouldn’t develop. Or that money doesn’t matter. I’m saying we should stop pretending money solves everything. A higher number does not automatically equal justice. Or closure. Or peace. You can value something deeply without being able to quantify it.

That used to be common sense.

The Real Reason Some People Stay Broke and Heartbroken (Hint: It’s Not Luck)

There are a lot of bullet points here but stay with me. There’s a certain species of adult who is permanently confused about why life keeps “happening” to them.

Bad luck with money.
Bad luck with dating.
Bad luck with bosses.

At some point, if everywhere you go smells like smoke, it might be worth checking your own pockets for a fire.

And I'm not mocking struggle. Life can be brutal. I get that. The economy is weird. Dating apps are a a joke. People absolutely face real obstacles. But here’s the uncomfortable truth: Most people who claim chronic bad luck aren’t unlucky. They’re resistant to knowledge.

Advice Feels Like an Attack

When someone is stuck financially or romantically, advice doesn’t feel helpful. It feels accusatory.

“Budget better.”
“Work on your communication.”
“Stop chasing people who don’t want you.”

Translation in their head: “You’re the problem.”

That stings. So instead of evaluating the advice, they evaluate the messenger.

“Oh, he got lucky.”
“She had advantages I didn't have.”
“That only works for certain people.”

Pride preserved. Nothing changes.

People Protect Their Story More Than Their Future

If someone has built their identity around being unlucky, overlooked, or misunderstood, changing means admitting something painful: “I’ve been participating in my own stagnation.”

That’s heavy.

It’s easier to believe that the system is rigged, finding love is impossible, yadda, yadda, yadda. There’s comfort in a narrative that removes responsibility. Responsibility requires action. Action requires discomfort. And discomfort is not trending.

Success Advice Is Boring

Financial progress is rarely dramatic. It’s discipline. It’s delayed gratification that involves saying "no" to yourself repeatedly.

Romantic success isn’t mystical either. It’s standards, emotional regulation, self-awareness, presentation, accountability, and consistency.

That's not sexy though. Nobody goes viral saying, “I fixed my spending habits and stopped pursuing dating chaos.”

But post “Nobody values loyalty anymore,” and you’ll get a standing ovation because validation pays faster than transformation.

Some Successful People Do Give Bad Advice Though

Let’s be fair. There are out-of-touch millionaires who think everyone can “just grind harder.” There are married people who forgot what modern dating looks like. There are privileged voices who mistake advantage for wisdom.

Not all advice is good advice. But here’s the test:

If multiple financially stable people tell you some version of:

• Increase your value.

• Spend less than you earn.

• Build leverage.

• Be consistent.

And multiple emotionally stable couples say:

• Choose better.

• Communicate clearly.

• Work on yourself.

• Stop chasing chaos.

At some point, the pattern isn’t coincidence. It's the real deal. We need to stop trying to protect our ego all while suffering the consequences of it. It's okay to admit "I don't know everything". I've said many times in this blog before that I'm "forever under construction". I'll never be a finished product because there is still room for me to grow (hopefully not physically - LOL).

Common sense isn’t cruel. It’s corrective.

And sometimes the most compassionate thing you can tell someone is this: "You’re not cursed. You’re just resisting."