“Doctor, is there an Ayurvedic medicine for heartbreak?”
That’s how the consultation started. Not with acid reflux, back pain, or PCOD. But heartbreak. A 33-year-old software engineer sat in front of me, blinking fast to hold back tears. “He ghosted me after five years. I’m fine, I think—just no energy. No appetite. My skin’s dull. I can’t focus. But yeah—other than that, I’m good.”
I didn’t reach for my pen. Not yet. Over the years, I’ve learned that some patients bring reports, others bring silence, and a few carry an entire emotional avalanche tucked behind one vague symptom. This was one of those days. The diagnosis wasn’t in her pulse. It was in her pause.
In Ayurveda, Rasayanas are often referred to as rejuvenators—herbs such as Ashwagandha, Brahmi, Shatavari, and Amalaki that restore, replenish, and renew the body. But there’s another kind of Rasayana that doesn’t come in a bottle or a powder. It isn’t enjoyable, nor sweet. It’s hard to swallow. It doesn’t sit on your tongue—it sits on your ego.
It’s called forgiveness.
I didn’t prescribe her Ashwagandha that day. Not yet. First, I told her a story.
About a 68-year-old man who came to me with arthritis so bad he couldn’t hold a spoon. He had tried everything—painkillers, cortisone, collagen. Nothing worked. But when I asked him what changed before the pain began, he said, “My only son stopped speaking to me. It’s been four years. I miss him every single day, but I’ll never call him first.”
I asked him gently, “Would you take poison every morning, hoping someone else dies?”
He looked confused. “No, of course not.”
I said, “But that’s exactly what we do when we hold onto anger, pain, and resentment. It’s toxic. To our joints. To our digestion. To our immunity. Even to our sleep.”
The Vedas knew this long before research papers started linking emotional trauma with autoimmune diseases. In Ayurveda, manasika doshas—mental toxins like grief, guilt, anger, and jealousy—can weigh as heavily on the system as undigested food sitting in the gut after an over-indulgent meal. Maybe even worse. Because emotional ama doesn’t get cleared with a digestive churna, it needs inner alchemy. It needs forgiveness.
Back to the software engineer.
I asked her, “Can you forgive him?”
She looked shocked. “Why should I? He hurt me. He left me. Forgiving him means saying what he did was okay.”
Oh, the age-old confusion. Forgiveness is not condoning. It’s not inviting someone back into your life. It’s not letting them off the hook—it’s letting yourself off the hook. It’s saying, “I will not carry your sin in my cells. I release you so that I can heal.”
A 10-year-old boy came in with psoriasis so raw it looked like his hands were trying to shed something. He didn’t say much—just sat there scratching his inflamed hands. His parents spoke for him, mainly about each other. Week after week, his psoriasis flared like clockwork after their fights. Then, over a month, it began to clear, not because of a new cream, but because the house had fallen silent. In Ayurveda, we understand that sometimes the skin becomes the stage where the silence of suffering performs its drama.
Modern science now talks of cortisol overload, trauma imprinting the nervous system, and neuro-inflammation. Ayurveda states that the Rasa dhatu becomes disturbed when the mind is disturbed.
Rasa—our first tissue, our essence. No wonder heartbreak can affect the skin, hair, menstrual cycles, and appetite.
When a person forgives, truly forgives, their posture changes. Their breathing deepens. Their tongue coating reduces. Their pulse softens. I’ve seen it happen. It’s not magic. It’s biology. It’s Ayurveda.
I’m not here to preach. I’m here to share.
One of my long-term patients, a 45-year-old banker, came to me during the pandemic with chronic fatigue. He’d had COVID, recovered, but never felt the same. “Something feels stuck,” he said. When I asked him about unresolved emotional issues, he smiled awkwardly and said, “I guess I still haven’t forgiven my dad. He left us when I was ten.”
I told him, “Maybe it’s time to write him a letter. Not to send. To clear the weight.”
He came back two weeks later, smiling. “I burned the letter. Slept like a baby that night.”
Did I give him Chyawanprash too? Yes. Did I tell him to avoid cold drinks? Of course. But sometimes, the body holds what the tongue doesn’t say. And the best Rasayana is not swallowed. It’s released.
Forgiveness doesn’t always happen overnight. Sometimes it’s a practice. Like pranayama. Like abhyanga. You sit with it daily. Breathe through it. Unclench your jaw. Unfold the letter you wrote to yourself a hundred times. And slowly, without fanfare, you begin to feel lighter.
Even Lord Dhanvantari, the divine physician, holds a leech in one hand—to suck out the bad blood. Isn’t that a metaphor for emotional cleansing, too?
Forgiveness is a leech for the soul. It removes what festers inside.
At the end of her consultation, the software engineer didn’t have a prescription for heartbreak. But she did leave with a new perspective. And a Rasayana she hadn’t expected.
I said to her, “Take one gentle breath of forgiveness every day. Swallow your pride with warm water. Apply compassion to the heart. Avoid the cold bitterness of blame. And don’t skip your daily dose of moving on.”
The real healing begins when we let go of the need to punish someone else by punishing ourselves.
Some wounds don’t need bandages. They need release.
And the most potent Rasayana is this: Not everything you carry belongs to you. Let it go.
Let it go gently. Let it go fully. Let it go now.
Forgiveness is not a virtue. It’s a treatment.
