Author: Stacy Havlicek
A soggy disaster on my best friend’s Carroll Gardens stoop, summer heat turning my mascara tears into a public art project. “Stacy, you’re fucking unhinged,” she snaps, 26 years of friendship giving her carte blanche to call me out. “This guy’s a human landfill—drop him!” I laugh through my snot, then lay out my insane plan: “No dice, I’m Detach Dating—letting him do what he does best to learn how to not give a shit.” Her face screams I’m headed for a padded cell. “It’s an experiment,” I grin, knowing I sound like a lunatic. “Sample size: me.” Early 40’s, fresh off a divorce that beat me to a pulp, I was done letting heartbreak run my life. I wanted to be a badass, and I was ready to play emotional cage fighter to get there.
Eighteen months earlier, my world was a trash heap. Newly single, I was raw, convinced love was the universe’s sick joke. Done with self-pity, I dove into a wisdom bender—Eckhart Tolle, Brené Brown,John Gray, Carl Jung, Don Miguel Ruiz, and my spiritual badass, Abraham Hicks. Between Wall Street’s grind and yoga, I inhaled YouTube rants hammering one truth: don’t take it personally. If a dude lies or ghosts, it’s his mess, not your value. My brain ate it up—gurus might sidestep betrayal like it’s a spilled kombucha, but me? A mortal with a busted heart? If someone bailed, I’d be a wreck. How do you practice not caring? Then, mid-tea at my kitchen island, Hicks’ words hit like a gut punch: “Unconditional love is keeping your vibe steady no matter what’s around you.” Hell yeah! I’d train my heart like a street brawler—date a toxic, non-committal player, safe but flaky, to master the art of “not my problem.” Let’s do this.
“I didn’t wait for life to hand me lessons; I practiced not giving a fuck like it was my day job.”
I met my mark at a friend’s backyard book launch—a Williamsburg musician with love songs and bear hugs that could crack ribs. When we were together, it was electric; apart, he was a ghost, distracted or picking fights over rando like my Alice in Chains apathy. Textbook toxic situationship. I leaned in, playing the chill girlfriend, no demands, just vibes. But every few months, he’d throw a tantrum and storm out, leaving me stinging. At first, I’d spiral, wondering what I did wrong. Then, I started seeing it: his blowups weren’t about me. They were his unhealed baggage, his shadows spilling over. Yung Pueblo puts it sharp: “Detachment isn’t icy—it’s the guts to put yourself first.” His chaos was his script, not my failure. I learned to let his drama slide off me, realizing hurt mirrors their wounds, not your worth. That shift was my first step to owning my power.
As the issues piled up, I got tougher. I’d let him slink back—not because I was desperate, but to test my own spine. I’d stand taller, remembering Amy Lyndon’s “I’m enough,” refusing to beg for his approval. Hicks’ wisdom sank deep: vibe high, and the light finds you. I wasn’t swallowing his hot-and-cold act anymore; I was building a core that didn’t need his approval. Each time he brought his drama, I saw my value clearer, not tied to his flaky whims. It hit me: your worth doesn’t need anyone’s vote—it’s yours to claim, no matter who’s in the room.
This wasn’t masochism—it was my emotional dojo. I picked a guy I knew wouldn’t commit, safe enough not to be a creep (his friends vouched), and swore to keep my integrity. I didn’t wait for life to hand me lessons; I practiced not giving a fuck like it was my day job. Every hurt was a chance to flex: his actions were his past, not my report card. I wasn’t playing doormat—I was forging a heart that could love without clinging, free to connect without losing myself. That practice made me bulletproof, ready to face any storm without crumbling.
“Each boundary I held felt like armor, not walls, keeping my heart open but fierce.”
Somewhere along the way, I learned to draw lines. Brené Brown’s grit lit a fire: I deserved better than his toddler meltdowns. When he’d storm out, I stopped racing to forgive. I’d pause, think, and only reconnect if it felt right for me. John Gray’s Venus smarts clicked: you teach people how to treat you. Setting boundaries wasn’t being a hardass—it was claiming my space, showing the world I’m worth more than half-assed love. Each boundary I held felt like armor, not walls, keeping my heart open but fierce.
The biggest truth? Healing’s not some passive waiting game—you’ve got to choose it. I didn’t hope time would fix me; I built this experiment to grow, like Tolle’s “be here now” with a kick. Each hurt was a chance to pick myself, not him. Carl Jung’s deep dive showed me: face the pain, and it shifts. By deliberately practicing detachment, I rewired my heart for real love, not just limping along. Time’s for toddlers —action’s for warriors who want to own their story.
A few months after that stoop sob-fest, I called it quits. His last meltdown hit like a mosquito bite—I’d mastered my vibe. I knew my worth, held my boundaries, and walked away with zero tears, pure swagger. A year later, I met my husband, hooked by my unbreakable confidence. He’s my match in every way, proof that Detach Dating was my crucible. But here’s the real talk: you don’t need to date a toxic dude to find this strength. I’ve been wrecked (haven’t we all?) and fought my way to love. A friend or coach can guide you to the same clarity without the bullshit. Get out there and claim your fucking life.
About the Author:
Stacy Havlicek is a NYC-based Relationship and Life Coach, Sound Healer, and Integrated Energy Therapist, walking clients from loss to love with radical transformation. Co-authoring a book with Dr. John Gray (September 2025), she turns raw pain into vibrant confidence.
Find them here: Stacy Havlicek