Only the broken-hearted know the truth about love.

Mason Cooley once spoke a phrase that cuts like a blade through the illusions of youth: “Only the broken-hearted know the truth about love.” These words remind us that love, though sweet in its bloom, reveals its deepest essence not in the hours of joy, but in the seasons of loss. The untested heart may think it knows love by its laughter, its embraces, its fire—but it is in heartbreak, when the soul is torn open, that one beholds the true cost, the true weight, and the true depth of what it means to love.

The ancients, too, sang this truth. In the songs of Sappho, in the tragedies of Euripides, we hear not merely the intoxication of affection, but the pain of abandonment, the ache of longing, the cries of souls undone by passion. For love is no simple pleasure—it is a force that binds and breaks, that exalts to the heavens and casts down into despair. The broken-hearted, having walked through this fire, know that love is not merely delight but also sacrifice, not merely bliss but also wounds. Only those who have bled from love’s arrow understand its double edge.

Think of the tale of Antony and Cleopatra. Their passion burned across empires, yet it ended in ruin, death, and sorrow. From afar, one might call it foolishness, but in the depths of their brokenness lay a truth: love does not promise safety. It is not measured by its outcome but by its surrender. They perished, yet in their downfall, they revealed the fierce, consuming reality of love. The broken-hearted spectator knows, in their pain, that love is not a tame companion, but a lion that devours as much as it blesses.

To know the truth about love is to cast aside illusions. The unbroken may speak of romance as though it were a song of eternal delight. But those who have lost, those who have wept in silence, those who have watched promises shatter—they see love more clearly. They know it is fragile, like glass, yet at the same time indestructible, for its memory lingers beyond loss. They know it is joy that risks sorrow, that to love fully is to accept the possibility of being undone.

Yet, despair not, children of tomorrow. Heartbreak, though cruel, is also a teacher. For those who emerge from its grasp carry with them wisdom and compassion. They no longer take lightly the love of a friend, the faithfulness of a partner, or the devotion of kin. They treat love not as a game, but as a sacred fire. In their brokenness, they discover the strength to cherish love more deeply when it returns. Thus, sorrow itself becomes the soil from which truer, humbler love may grow.

Consider the story of Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein. She knew love, but also deep loss—her husband drowned at sea, her children died young. Yet through her grief, she poured out words that reshaped literature. Her broken heart revealed truths about love, loneliness, and the human soul that no untested joy could have written. Her pain became art, and her sorrow became wisdom for the generations. This is the gift of heartbreak: it strips away illusions and leaves behind truths that endure.

The lesson, then, is this: do not despise heartbreak. If you are broken-hearted, know that you have touched the truth about love. You have seen its cost, and therefore you know its worth. Carry this knowledge as wisdom. Let it teach you to love more gently, more honestly, more courageously. And if your heart is whole today, do not take it for granted—remember that love is not only sweetness, but also trial. To love is to risk; to risk is to live.

Practical action flows from this wisdom: treasure those you love, for nothing is guaranteed. Speak truth to them while you can. Do not play with affection or hide behind falsehoods. And when heartbreak comes, do not harden your heart—let the wound teach you. For in your brokenness, you are closer to the truth than ever before. And in that truth, you will one day find not only pain, but also the strength to love again with greater depth and greater grace.