Love Is Not the Villain: Tonya Greig on Healing, Accountability, and Staying Soft After Heartbreak

At just 26 years old, Guyanese poet Tonya Greig is redefining how we talk about love and heartbreak. With her debut poetry collection, Love Did Not Break Me, You Did, she challenges the romanticized narratives that equate chaos with passion and suffering with devotion. Instead, Greig offers something more introspective: a thoughtful examination of emotional maturity, generational wounds, grief, and the courage it takes to remain soft in a world that often rewards hardness.

Born and raised in Guyana with French roots, Greig’s voice is reflective, intimate, and culturally grounded. Her work creates space for honest conversations about vulnerability, accountability, and rediscovering oneself beyond pain. In this Q&A, she opens up about the personal experiences behind the book, the cultural influences that shaped her storytelling, and what healthy love truly looks like today.

Your book title is bold and emotionally charged — Love Did Not Break Me, You Did. What inspired that distinction between love and the person who caused the pain?

The title came from a realization that love itself is not destructive. Love, in its healthiest form, is nurturing and expansive. What often causes pain are the unresolved wounds, emotional immaturity, and unhealed parts of the people involved. I wanted to separate the purity of love from the harm that can occur when individuals are not emotionally ready for it. That distinction felt important... both personally and culturally.

At just 26, you’ve released a debut collection that dives deeply into heartbreak, accountability, and emotional maturity. What life experiences shaped this body of work?

This book was written over the course of five years, and in that time, I evolved significantly. It was shaped by romantic heartbreak but also by deeper personal experiences — particularly navigating a complicated relationship with my mother and processing her passing.

Writing became a space where I confronted not only how others hurt me, but how I showed up in relationships. Therapy, reflection, and emotional growth influenced this collection deeply. It became less about blame and more about accountability, healing, and understanding generational patterns.

You were born and raised in Guyana with French roots. How has Caribbean culture influenced your voice, storytelling, and the emotional tone of your poetry?

Being born and raised in Guyana shaped my emotional lens in profound ways. Caribbean culture values strength and resilience, but vulnerability is not always openly encouraged. We are often taught to be tough — even within our own households.

That contrast influenced my writing. I speak openly about emotions that many of us were taught to suppress. My French roots also add a reflective and introspective layer to how I process experience. Together, those influences allow my voice to feel both grounded and intimate.

You speak about “growing through pain without losing softness.” Why is softness such an important theme in your writing?

Softness is not weakness. It is emotional courage. In many spaces, especially culturally, we are taught that hardness equals strength. I disagree. Choosing softness after being hurt is a conscious decision.

People should be allowed to express themselves without judgment. That freedom builds character. Growing through pain without becoming hardened allows us to love again — but from a healthier place.

Many readers romanticize heartbreak. Your work seems to confront it honestly. What do you hope readers unlearn about love after reading this collection?

I hope readers unlearn the idea that intensity equals love. Chaos is often mistaken for passion. I also hope they unlearn the belief that suffering is proof of devotion. Love should not require you to abandon yourself. It should feel reciprocal, respectful, and safe.

The book explores unresolved trauma and emotional immaturity in relationships. Why do you think accountability is such a difficult conversation in modern love?

Accountability requires self-awareness, and self-awareness requires discomfort. In modern dating culture, it is easier to move on than to reflect. We live in a time where distraction is accessible and connections are replaceable.

True accountability asks us to examine our own patterns, not just point fingers. That level of honesty is challenging, but it is necessary for emotional maturity.

Was there a particular poem in the collection that was hardest for you to write — and why?

Yes. The poems about my mother were the most difficult. We had a complicated relationship, and writing about it — especially after her passing — required deep emotional honesty.

It is one thing to write about romantic heartbreak. It is another to unpack maternal wounds and grief. Those poems demanded vulnerability in a way that felt both painful and necessary.

Your poetry feels intimate and confessional. Did you ever struggle with vulnerability while deciding what to include in the book?

Absolutely. Poetry is inherently intimate. There were moments where I questioned whether certain pieces were too exposed. But I reminded myself that discomfort often signals truth. I chose honesty over perfection.

As a young Caribbean woman publishing contemporary poetry, what challenges have you faced — and what advice would you give to other emerging writers in the region?

One challenge is that emotional and mental health conversations are still evolving in many Caribbean spaces. In Guyana and across the region, mental illness is not always openly discussed, and safe spaces for processing trauma are not always accessible.

That reality makes emotional expression through art even more important. Writing becomes a form of release and awareness. My advice to emerging writers in the region is to take your voice seriously — even if it feels unconventional. Our stories deserve depth, nuance, and emotional intelligence.

How do you define healthy love now compared to how you may have defined it in the past?

Healthy love now begins with self-awareness. It is not about being chosen at any cost. It is about maintaining boundaries, honoring intuition, and not shrinking to be accepted.

In the past, I may have equated love with intensity or constant reassurance. Now, I understand that healthy love feels steady. It allows both people to grow without losing themselves.

If a reader is currently navigating heartbreak, what do you hope they feel after finishing Love Did Not Break Me, You Did?

I hope they feel seen and understood. I believe that is what most people truly want. I also hope they learn that pain does not have to disappear for life to feel meaningful again.

You can carry your history without being defined by it. You can survive heartbreak and still create a happy ending for yourself.

What’s next for Tonya Greig? Can readers expect more poetry, spoken word performances, or perhaps a different genre in the future?

Poetry will always be my foundation. I plan to continue refining my craft and expanding my voice. I am open to exploring new themes and formats as I grow, but at the core, my work will continue to center emotional honesty and thoughtful storytelling.

Conclusion:

With Love Did Not Break Me, You Did, Tonya Greig offers more than poetry — she offers perspective. Her words remind us that heartbreak does not have to harden us, that accountability is a form of growth, and that love, in its purest form, is never the enemy. Through vulnerability and emotional truth, she creates space for healing conversations that resonate far beyond the page.

Love Did Not Break Me, You Did is available now on Amazon:👉🏾 https://a.co/d/0fgpMr6e