The Questions I Ask Myself Now
Lately, I’ve been sitting with the question of love. What it really is. Who deserves it. How I want to give it - fully, deeply, without begging for scraps or shrinking myself to fit into someone’s cold comfort zone.
I keep thinking about the kind of love I longed for - the kind I kept offering even when it wasn’t held with care. I kept showing up with open hands, communication, and promises I meant. But what I gave wasn’t protected.
So now, I’m asking harder questions. What do I need to learn to be the kind of love that doesn’t break itself trying to be enough? Who do I need to become to be the kind of love that holds, that shelters, that stays?
I want love that doesn’t come with suspicion in its eyes or judgment on its tongue. Love that doesn’t crumble under assumptions. Love that doesn’t weaponize my truth. I want love built on trust. On safety. On presence. Love where I can breathe without being questioned. Where I can exist without defending myself. Where I am not punished for needing connection or misunderstood for being human.
And when I strip it all down, when I let the ache speak for me, it sounds like this:
Before I die, I want to be someone’s safest place. A place where they can put every shaky truth, every secret, every storm, and know - know - I won’t misuse it or turn away. I’ll keep it safe. Because I know how it feels when someone doesn’t.
