Anyone who's ever been involved with someone will tell you this: relationships are tough. The disagreements, the fights, and the things that are never even said can contribute to a lot of resentment between two people who supposedly love each other. But even harder sometimes is letting go of a relationship, no matter how godawful irritating it was. At least, that was my experience.

I won't bore you with the details, but my first serious relationship, which began my junior year of high school, ended over a phone call during my freshman year of college. No one was "the bad guy" in the relationship; there were things about him I didn't love, there were things about me he didn't love, and the love we had for each other wasn't enough to overcome our differences. By its end, the relationship was toxic, and ending it was the best thing for both parties involved.

But as most people know, getting over a relationship, no matter how badly things suck between you and your significant other, is hard. Like, really hard. After the end of my first real relationship, I felt lost, alone, and like I would never be whole again. I let it ruin my first semester of college, but worst of all, I almost let an incredible person slip away because I could not let this guy go.

Let me tell you something: that was stupid of me.

That is not to say that my former flame wasn't worth caring about, because he absolutely was. Every person deserves to be cared about. My point is that my ridiculous amount of codependence on him was crippling, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not let him go. I couldn't let him go even as I started casually seeing another person around two months after our breakup. Time and time again I thought I was ready to see where things went with this new person, only to feel like I was punched in the stomach by the memory of him. And this person, this lovely man with whom I'd been spending a lot of my time, was patient with me, caring enough about me to try to pick me back up again, but without hiding any ulterior motives.

And so I thought that though I had very real, very strong feelings for this new person, we could never really be together, because my heartbreak over losing my first love was seemingly not going to heal.

But then came the night of the blue French horn.

For this story to make any sense, it's pertinent to know that I was and continue to be a huge fan of "How I Met Your Mother," watching reruns over and over on Netflix. My sister, mother, and I watched the series finale together, only to walk away with differing opinions on the last scene where Ted, the main character, presented Robin (NOT the mother) with a blue French horn to the tune of The Walkmen's "Heaven" to prove his love for her. Though initially conflicted about the ending within the context of the storyline, I came to view this entire scene as wildly romantic, and I told my new companion that all I wanted from a guy was for him to be standing outside my window, holding up a blue French horn, as that same song played.

Flash forward to my birthday weekend. This guy I'd been seeing took me out to dinner, as friends, and we had a nice, albeit a bit awkward, time. All I could think about as I sat across from him was how much I liked him, and how much I wanted things to move forward. Still, though, there remained this thing inside of me that held me back.

After dinner and a heartfelt conversation, we went back to the car, where he told me I could hook up my phone to his Bluetooth, but he got to pick the song. As I watched, he picked "Heaven" out of a playlist. The opening riff began to play.

"Close your eyes," he said, getting out of the car.

Confused, I closed them, but admittedly peeked in the rearview mirror as he dug around in his backseat. I quickly closed them as he shut the door, and sat listening to the music in anticipation.

"Remember, remember...all we fight for."

Then, suddenly, I heard a knocking at my window. I opened my eyes and looked over to see only his head visible above the car door. He gestured for me to roll down the window, and, when I did, he proudly held up a statue of a blue French horn.

I was aghast. He had remembered this ridiculous little fantasy I'd had, and he'd brought it to life. I was so floored and touched by the gesture that I think I may have cried. I accepted the horn gratefully, and we have remained a couple since that night.

For every person who has ended a relationship, there has to come a moment where a switch flips and they suddenly realize, "I am going to be okay without this person." For me, that came with the blue French horn, and the guy holding it up to my window. I realized that my being so hung up on this former flame had cost me a lot of time, happiness, and almost a wonderful new relationship. Looking back on the whole thing, I'm ashamed at my level of codependence on this person. It's ridiculous.

After the presentation of the blue French horn, with the help of my newfound boyfriend, I began pursuing other things that brought me happiness. I reconnected with an old friend, I joined organizations at school, I got a new job, and I developed a sense of confidence and independence that I had never felt before. My new relationship doesn't really leave room for codependence--we're both busy, driven people, and we can't always be together as we pursue our goals. And we're okay with that.

It's taken my time to gain my happiness and my sense of self back, and I have a lot of people to thank for helping me along the way. My advice to anyone going through a terrible heartbreak is to look for the "blue French horn"; that is, look for the people or things that revitalize you and bring you a new hope for your life. Find someone or something, or both, that brings you joy and laughter, and that takes away from your pain. Look for the light at the end of the tunnel; it may be right next to you.

So, over the past few months, I've begun to think of myself as a "strong, independent woman who don't need no man." I just happen to have one, and a pretty incredible one at that. He helped give me my life back; he gave me my blue French horn, and I'm forever grateful.

Love you, Ted.