It was 10:45 PM on a Tuesday when I found myself standing in front of the freezer at a 24-hour grocery store, staring blankly at tubs of ice cream. My eyes were puffy, my hoodie hadn’t left my body in two days, and I was still carrying a half-written text I’d never send. You know the kind — dramatic, over-thought, designed to sting gently but still leave room for reconciliation. I deleted it eventually. But not before choosing the tub of chocolate almond fudge that would, against all odds, pull me back together.
We’d broken up that morning. Or maybe the night before. Honestly, the hours had melted into one long, shapeless fog. There had been no big fight, no betrayal, no slammed doors. Just the soft thud of two people running out of rhythm. And in the aftermath, I did what many of us do: I sought something predictable. Something cold. Something sweet.
The Predictable Comfort of Ice Cream
There’s a reason ice cream is a breakup cliché. But that doesn’t make it any less effective. Ice cream doesn’t require conversation. It doesn’t ask how you’re feeling. It just lets you cry into it, quietly. That night, alone in my apartment in Austin, I sat cross-legged on the couch with the tub in one hand and a spoon in the other, scooping straight from the middle like a man who had lost his GPS signal in life.
The first bite was almost too much — not emotionally, just physically. That blast of cold was a shock to my throat, like my body wasn’t ready for sensation again. But then the chocolate kicked in. Then the almonds. Then the creamy fudge that tasted like something between a memory and a dare. I wasn’t healed, but for five minutes, I wasn’t heartbroken. I was just eating ice cream.
Cold as a Reset Button
Grief — especially the romantic kind — is exhausting. You’re trying to sort through versions of the past and versions of yourself, all while doing laundry and answering work emails. There’s a kind of numbness that sets in, and ice cream, weirdly, breaks through that. It’s cold, but it makes you feel again. Not just emotionally, but physically. It reminds you: hey, you still have a body. You still have taste buds. You’re still here.
It wasn’t just about sugar or dairy. It was about sensation. About control. I couldn’t fix the relationship, but I could choose chocolate almond fudge over vanilla. I could decide when to stop eating (I didn’t), and I could let my sadness take the night off without explanation.
The Sweetness of Not Talking
After a breakup, everyone wants to help. Friends offer drinks, playlists, distractions. Well-meaning advice pours in: “It happened for a reason,” “You’ll find someone better,” “Focus on yourself.” But sometimes, what you really need is a moment without noise. A moment where nothing is expected of you. Ice cream gave me that. It didn’t require healing. It didn’t suggest therapy. It just melted, slowly, on a spoon, like time undoing itself.
I didn’t cry while eating it. That came later, when a sappy ad played on YouTube and blindsided me. But in that window of frozen sweetness, I felt… okay. Not good. Not whole. Just okay. And when you’re nursing the dull ache of love lost, okay is sacred.
What Stayed After It Melted
That night didn’t fix me. But it marked the beginning of repair. And weeks later, when I was finally able to put the tub away (it lived in my freezer like a quiet roommate), I realized why it worked. Ice cream didn’t try to solve my grief. It just sat with it. Like a friend who knows not to say anything, just pass the spoon.
Now, whenever someone I know is going through heartbreak, I skip the pep talk. I bring them ice cream. No metaphors. No pressure. Just sugar, cold comfort, and the quiet reminder: this hurts now, but you’ll taste joy again.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
