Why generalizing your heartbreak only deepens the wound—and how to love again, without prejudice.
“Love doesn’t discriminate. But we often do.”
I hate it when people generalize.
Why do we let the failures of one person stand in for the character of many? When love goes wrong, why do we suddenly put an entire gender, race, tribe, or religion on trial? Is it fair—or even logical—to hold millions accountable for the heartbreak caused by one?
You met someone. You didn’t pick them out of a lottery. Out of all the men or women who crossed your path, smiled your way, or made a move, you chose one. You filtered. You selected. You called them your “type,” your “kind.” And yes, that’s okay—we all have preferences. But when that choice backfires, why does your disappointment become a weapon used to slash at everyone who shares your ex’s background?
“You once said, ‘My kind of man is this,’ or ‘I only date women like that.’ You turned down others. You set standards. You were choosy—proudly so. But now?”
The moment it ends in betrayal or pain, the narrative shifts:
“All men are the same.”
“These women will ruin you.”
“You can’t trust people from that tribe.”
“Never date someone from that religion.”
“People from that country don’t know how to love.”
Wait. Hold on. Really?
How many men did you date?
How many women from that background broke your heart?
Did the whole tribe sit you down and plot your heartbreak?
Did an entire religion send someone to mistreat you?
Why do we erase the agency we once had the moment things fall apart?
“It’s easier to generalize than to grieve honestly.”
It’s ironic, isn’t it? When love is blooming, we say, “My man is the best,” or “She’s not like other women.” We elevate our partner as rare, exceptional, one in a million. But when the same relationship turns sour, suddenly, that one person becomes the ambassador of a billion.
We go from:
“He’s not like other men.”
to
“All men are trash.”
We go from:
“She’s the one.”
to
“Women from that tribe are dangerous.”
Why do we glorify individuals when things are sweet but crucify entire groups when things turn bitter?
Heartbreak is not easy. Emotions cloud judgment. Hurt demands explanations. And generalization becomes a lazy escape—a place to dump the pain, the confusion, the grief. But here’s the truth: every generalization is a lie disguised as protection.
“No culture is immune to heartbreak. No religion guarantees loyalty. No country breeds only saints or sinners.”
It’s easier to say, “All women are gold diggers,” than to admit you pursued beauty and overlooked values.
It’s easier to say, “All men cheat,” than to admit you were warned but still went ahead.
It’s easier to blame a race or tribe than to confront the uncomfortable truth: maybe the problem wasn’t “them”—maybe the problem was your choice.
Have we forgotten that love is always a risk?
Have we forgotten that no love story comes with guarantees?
And here’s another layer to consider: what if the problem isn’t who you chose—but why you chose them?
Were you looking for someone who fed your ego or someone who nurtured your soul?
Were you seeking status or substance? Looks or loyalty?
Were you building love—or just renting attention?
“When your healing strategy is blame, you never truly heal—you just build emotional walls around your wounds.”
Some say, “I can’t date someone without money,” or “I only date light-skinned women,” or “He must be from this country or that tribe.” They boast about their standards. But when their curated ideal turns into a disaster, instead of blaming their flawed criteria, they blame the entire world. Isn’t that a failure of reasoning?
And yet, as contradictory as it sounds, there are people right now loving someone from that very tribe, faith, or race you swore off—and thriving. Someone is happy with the kind of person you rejected. Someone is experiencing peace, joy, and growth with the same kind of person you now demonize.
“So, here’s a question: if people are experiencing both heaven and hell in love across all cultures and identities, does the problem really lie in identity—or in individuality?”
We must stop using personal pain as a paintbrush for the whole world.
One woman broke your heart—not all women.
One man cheated—not all men.
One relationship failed. That doesn’t mean love has failed.
That doesn’t mean people have failed you.
That doesn’t mean everyone from that group is doomed to repeat the same offense.
No one group owns heartbreak.
No country monopolizes deception.
No tribe has a patent on betrayal.
And no religion manufactures only bad lovers.
But many have shut their hearts completely. Not to pain—but to healing.
They now avoid people with a name that sounds like their ex’s.
They flinch at a certain height, a beard, a skin tone.
They’ve started punishing the future for the sins of the past.
“You didn’t shut love out—you shut the door on the chance to be loved rightly.”
So what then do we do with heartbreak?
We sit with it.
We learn from it.
We reflect—not generalize.
We ask better questions:
What attracted me to this person in the first place? Were there signs I ignored? Was it about love—or validation? Did I choose them out of fear of being alone, or a genuine connection?
Because healing doesn’t come from blaming—it comes from understanding.
Let’s be honest: we’ve all made poor choices.
We’ve all seen red flags and still said, “Maybe it’ll change.”
We’ve all mistaken attention for affection.
And sometimes, we didn’t know better.
But blaming the world only delays our growth.
So next time a relationship fails—whether gently or explosively—don’t turn your pain into prejudice. Don’t weaponize your experience against people who never hurt you. Don’t carry bitterness like a banner.
Instead, say:
“This one didn’t work out. But I’m learning. And I still believe love exists—in every gender, every race, every faith, every culture. Somewhere, someone will choose me right. And I will choose them well.”
Because love doesn’t discriminate.
But we often do.
Let’s do better.
#Puobabangna
By Victor Raul Puobabangna Plance from Eggu in the Upper West Region of Ghana
