Harsh truth revealed by Olivia Attwood posts after Bradley Dack split

This article is for Olivia Attwood. Are you listening, Olivia? Because I’m about to get brutally honest.

I say this with love, but lock your phone in a safe. Or throw it in the ocean. Hand it to someone you trust and tell them you’re not getting it back until you’ve moved through all five stages of heartbreak and grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.

Because what’s currently playing out on your Instagram is grim.

For the uninitiated, Love Island star turned TV presenter Olivia Attwood is rumoured to have split from her husband of nearly three years, footballer Bradley Dack.

The pair are yet to announce their separation formally. But Olivia’s Instagram is littered with dead-giveaway clues.

Posts overlaid with sad music. A video of Olivia sitting alone in a brand new, empty apartment, as Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls plays.

Yes, that Iris. The ultimate musical shorthand for heartbreak, famously used in the end credits after Meg Ryan’s death scene in City of Angels.

If that doesn’t whisper ‘it’s just me now, Brad is gone’, I truly don’t know what does.

Then there was the late-night reel she shared to her story on Tuesday. A forlorn-looking Angelina Jolie talking about how she got through ‘tough times’.

I’ll be honest, it was actually insightful. I learnt a lot from it the first time that I saw it. But you know what I did with that video? I saved it to a private folder titled ‘life guidance’ (yes, cringe).

I didn’t share it with 2.5million followers. But, moment of truth – the old me would have shared it.

The version of me who was craving a big, warm hug from the toxic bloke I’d just broken up with in my mid-30s – but couldn’t get one – so took to Instagram instead.

Posting cryptic videos about loss. About betrayal. About people who had ‘done me wrong’. Once, I even posted a slow-motion video of the ocean set to a sad song. No context. Just vibes. Moody Jana, being moody.

And I’ll be honest, those posts weren’t for my entire following. They were for one person. My ex. I wanted him to see them, to feel the guilt of how I was feeling. Really, it was a desperate attempt to get his attention. Embarrassing to admit now, but painfully true at the time.

The real annoyance came when he ignored it, and instead I was met with a flurry of messages from other people. Some well-meaning friends, some just nosey parkers, all asking if I was okay. Copying and pasting the same reassuring reply over and over made me feel foolish, and quietly wonder if I was making myself look a bit silly.

That’s what eventually stopped me. The response to my oversharing. Because it’s never the one person you actually want to see it who does. But the gossips will flock to the comments section.

I still shudder when I think about that era. Before social media, we were allowed to fall apart quietly. You’d cry on the phone to your best friend, rehash the same breakup details a million times, eat toast for dinner and slowly re-enter the world. All without an audience.

Now, heartbreak has spectators.

And the uncomfortable truth is while some people watching genuinely care, plenty are just there for the drama. The slow unravelling. The subtext. The guessing game.

We’ve seen this play out a million times before. A friend suddenly posts the famous Maya Angelou quote ‘When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time,’ and you instantly think, here we go, Sarah’s in the middle of a break-up.

Then the group WhatsApps fire up. Have you seen what Sarah just posted? I just checked her following list, she’s no longer following Charles. It’s glorious and tragic all at the same time.

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Then poor Sarah comes out the other side, feeling lighter and clearer, and suddenly she’s confronted with the digital receipts of her most vulnerable moments. Still floating around. Still public.

And that’s the risk of posting through heartbreak. It feels cathartic in the moment, but embarrassing in hindsight.

Here’s the rule I wish someone had drilled into me years ago: if you feel the urge to post something cryptic after midnight, just don’t. Or if you feel the need to post a reel set to sad music, double don’t. Screenshot it. Save it. Sit with it for 24 hours.

If it still feels empowering the next day, go for it. If not, congratulations, you’ve just saved yourself from a future embarrassing memory.

The annoying thing about heartbreak is that it needs to be felt, not performed. There’s a quiet difference between genuinely processing pain and packaging it into something consumable for an audience.

Real healing is rarely aesthetic. It’s repetitive, messy and mostly happens off-camera. It looks less like a perfectly soundtracked reel and more like cancelled plans and rewatching old TV.

When we post through heartbreak, it can quietly turn into outsourcing our self-worth to strangers, asking them to reassure us that we’re still lovable. That kind of validation fades quickly and before you know it, you’re needing more of it.

Olivia, you’re a gorgeous girl with a huge career ahead of you. So may I suggest the most rational celebrity approach of all?

Sell the story for an outrageously large sum of money. Tell it once. Then shut the door and flood your Instagram with your glow-up.

Because isn’t that the upside of break-ups? Getting revenge by getting hotter?

No? Just me and Khloe Kardashian then.