We start grasping complex emotions early in life – somewhere between learning how to spell “because” and realizing that Santa’s handwriting looks suspiciously like your mother’s.
But little humans? We’re not exactly known for our emotional eloquence. We simplify. We squish big feelings into bite-sized, manageable things. Jealousy becomes “mean.” Grief becomes “sad.” Love becomes… well, someone giving you their last Dunkaroo.
There are many complex emotions – gratitude, resentment, betrayal, awe – but let’s be honest, we’re here for love. That elusive, addictive, sometimes imaginary thing I’ve spent most of my life trying to earn like it’s a punch card reward system.
Love, at first, seemed pretty simple. You like someone. They like you back. You give them half of your cupcake. Boom. You’re soulmates.
Then it gets… layered.
So let me ask you – what is love, to you?
To me? It’s my parents. They’re the living, breathing epitome of love (and also a walking rebuttal to every bad relationship I’ve ever had, which is honestly a bit rude).
They met as teenagers – 18 and 19 (my mom being the 19 and my dad never letting her forget that she’s “older” than him 😅) – and somehow never stopped choosing each other. My mom, city-slicking second-in-her-class academic, had to pick: stay with my dad (a countryside dreamer with zero capital but apparently excellent emotional stock) or maintain ties with her father, who disapproved. She picked my dad. Thirteen years passed before she spoke to her father again.
My dad? He once hitchhiked across Europe with pocket change and a paper map, slept on train station benches just to get back to my pregnant mother. Today, that’s considered a red flag (sir, do you have a job?). Back then? Iconic. Romantic. Probably a little illegal.
Now, 46 years later, they still hold hands and argue about which Romanian grocery store has the better cabbage. So, naturally, I grew up thinking that that was love. I grew up wanting that. Needing it.
But here’s where it gets sticky. Fast forward to 33-year-old me, with a Rolodex of an emotionally shit past and enough red flags to start a Communist revival. Did that deep-rooted desire to have that kind of love – my parents’ kind – set me up to settle for scraps?
The answer is yes. The thing is, I spent most of my adult life chasing the idea of love that Little D believed in but never sat down as Adult D to actually define what love means to me – outside of nostalgia and romanticized sacrifice.
So… what is love, Adult Me?
It’s a lot of things. To everyone. And to me, on a Tuesday after therapy and a grocery store cry, it’s probably something like this: My mom (a glamorous, no-bullshit oracle of a woman) says the secret to lasting love is communication and respect. And you know what? That tracks.
Communication means saying the uncomfortable things out loud – yes, even the ones that make your voice shake and your partner flinch. It’s not just about asking what’s for dinner; it’s about asking for what you need in life, in love, in bed, in a future together.
Respect is listening. Actually listening. And then acting like what you heard actually fucking matters. At all. And when those two things exist – and both people are showing up – you’ve got something that can last. What I had? Wasn’t that. Not even close. Looking back, my past relationships were lacking effort. From them, at least. Because I think I brought mine. Every damn time. Full of hope. Full of intensity. Full of desperate determination to “make it work.” Which – spoiler – never does when the other person is only there for what you can offer, not who you are. So yeah. Their “love” wasn’t love. It was a mask. A placeholder and most definitely, a manipulation.
And every time that love fell short, I internalized it. I thought I wasn’t enough. I gave more, I shrank more, I tried harder. I filled the space with understanding and empathy and late-night calls and “I’m sorry” texts for things I didn’t even do.
And I was left empty. Every. Single. Time.
But here’s the twist: It was enough. I am enough. And those partners? They were not even close to good. Not “almost.” Not “on their healing journey.” Not “trauma-informed.” Just… not fucking good.
Please remember that, Sugars.
Because if you’ve ever felt like your love was too much – or not enough – it’s probably because you were giving it to someone who didn’t know what to do with real love in the first place.
P.S.
I actually wrote half of this article, lost it, cried about it (obviously) and then rewrote it while spiralling over whether it would still be good enough.
But it is. And I am. And you are. We can build a bridge and get over this together.🙃
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