I’ve been sitting with this strange, heavy feeling—the kind that doesn’t always announce itself, but lingers.
And I keep circling around one question:
Did I ever really know what love was?
Not the storybook kind. Not the movie montage.
But real love. Soft love. Steady love.
Because for so long, love felt like something I had to earn.
Something I had to be small for.
Something I had to fight for.
Something I had to keep quiet for.
Something that felt more like waiting than being held.
Maybe that wasn’t love.
Or maybe it was—but a version of it that never made me feel safe.
A version that cost too much.
I don’t say this with bitterness. I say it with clarity.
With the kind of exhaustion that comes from holding on too long to something that wasn’t holding me back.
And here I am now, in this strange in-between:
Not sure I trust love.
Not sure I want it.
Not sure I’d even recognize it if it knocked on my door.
But here’s what I’m starting to believe:
Maybe love isn’t a grand gesture or a dramatic promise.
Maybe it’s something quieter—like letting myself rest without guilt.
Or learning how to stay present in a body I used to disconnect from.
Or not explaining myself to someone who’s never tried to understand me.
Maybe it’s walking away when staying would mean disappearing.
Maybe it’s creating a life that feels like home—even if no one else is in it right now.
Maybe love isn’t what I thought it was.
And maybe that’s not a loss.
Maybe that’s the beginning.