Through Tears and Time: How Crying Became My Cleansing Ritual

Tears used to scare me. They felt like cracks in the armor I worked so hard to build. Growing up, I was taught to keep them in. “Stay strong,” they’d say. “Don’t cry in front of others. Don’t let them see you weak.” So I didn’t. I held everything inside—grief, stress, heartbreak, even joy that felt too big to contain. But holding in my tears didn’t make me strong. It made me sick.

For years, I carried the weight of unspoken emotions. I suffered from headaches, chronic fatigue, and anxiety that bubbled up at the worst times. My skin lost its glow, my appetite wavered, and sleep became a distant dream. Doctors gave me vitamins and sleep aids. Therapists suggested I talk more. But talking felt like another form of hiding. I needed something deeper, something more primal.

That something came one night, unexpectedly. I was sitting on the floor of my apartment after a long, soul-draining day. No music. No phone. Just silence—and myself. My breath caught in my throat. My chest tightened. And suddenly, tears began to fall. At first, just a few. Then a flood. It was as if years of tension had burst open at once. I sobbed for everything: for the little girl who learned to stay silent, for the heartbreaks I never processed, for the person I pretended to be.

But after the tears came something else: relief. My shoulders dropped. My breath deepened. I felt lighter, freer. Not healed—but finally human again.

That night was the beginning of a new chapter in my life. A chapter where I stopped fearing my emotions and started honoring them. Where I realized that tears aren’t weakness—they’re wisdom. They are the body’s way of processing the unspoken, of cleansing the emotional clutter we refuse to name. From that day on, I gave myself permission to cry. Not in a dramatic, performative way—but privately, intentionally, and without shame.

I began to research the science of crying. I learned that emotional tears are chemically different from the tears we cry when cutting onions. They contain stress hormones like cortisol and ACTH, as well as natural painkillers like leucine-enkephalin. In short, crying literally releases stress from the body. It helps regulate mood, lowers blood pressure, and rebalances the nervous system. No wonder I felt better after crying. My body had been waiting for this kind of release.

Soon, I created what I now call my “cleansing ritual.” When life starts to feel too heavy, I give myself space. I light a candle, sit by a window, and just breathe. If tears come, I let them. I don’t rush to stop them. I don’t apologize. I treat my tears as sacred, as a sign that I’m alive and aware of my emotions.

Tears have shown me the truth in situations I tried to ignore. They’ve surfaced in quiet moments after reading a poem, hearing a song, or looking at an old photo. Sometimes they arrive without warning—on a walk, in the shower, on a lazy Sunday afternoon. I no longer fear them. I welcome them like rain after a dry spell. Because that’s what tears are—a storm that cleanses, followed by clarity.

People around me began to notice a shift. My skin looked better. My eyes had a softness they hadn’t had in years. I spoke more honestly, laughed more freely, and felt more connected to myself. I stopped bottling things up, and instead began journaling, meditating, and even creating art. Every time I cried, I felt like something toxic had left my body. I didn’t need expensive wellness programs or magic pills—I needed release.

Eventually, I started sharing my journey. At first just with friends, then with strangers online. I was surprised how many people messaged me privately: “I haven’t cried in years,” they’d say. “I want to, but I don’t know how.” That’s the thing—so many of us don’t need advice. We need permission. We need to hear that it’s okay to fall apart sometimes, because healing often starts in the mess.

Crying has also deepened my relationships. I’ve had conversations with my parents I never thought possible—real, tear-filled moments that brought us closer. I’ve sat with friends through their heartbreaks, no longer trying to fix them, but simply allowing space for their tears. And in doing so, I realized something profound: tears connect us. They are a universal language of pain, joy, and truth.

Looking back, I see that the strongest version of me isn’t the one who holds it together. It’s the one who’s soft enough to feel and brave enough to express it. It’s the girl who lets tears fall and knows they won’t destroy her—they’ll transform her. Just like water shapes rock, tears shape the soul.

Now, when I see myself in the mirror after crying, I don’t look broken. I look cleansed. There’s a beauty in red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks that no filter can replicate. It’s real. It’s raw. It’s proof that I’m alive and healing.

So if you’re reading this and feel like the weight of the world is pressing on your chest—let go. Cry. Not because you're giving up, but because you’re releasing what no longer serves you. Let the tears fall. Let them teach you. Let them soften you, so that you can become stronger in the right ways.

Because sometimes the most powerful thing you can do for your health, your heart, and your healing—is cry.