What Loves Means To Me

 All I have ever wanted in life is to be loved.

Growing up, I didn't have the kind of family life that made love feel safe or secure. My mother often chose relationships over her children, staying with men who didn't treat her—or us—the way we deserved. My dad was only around every other weekend, and while I loved him, alcohol often brought out a side of him that could be hurtful and mean.

I love both of my parents, but my childhood wasn't easy. On my mom's side of the family, only one person graduated from high school. No one talked to me about higher education or encouraged me to dream bigger. No one owned a home. We moved constantly because my mom struggled to keep up with the bills. I remember lying awake at night, praying that somehow my real parents were out there looking for me. I convinced myself that maybe I had been switched at birth because surely I wasn't meant for this life.

I didn't grow up seeing healthy love. I didn't have examples of romance, commitment, or partnership. Instead, I learned about love through books and movies. They became my guide for what I wanted someday. More than anything, I wanted a family. I wanted a husband who would love me, support me, and stand beside me no matter what. I wanted someone who had my back because so few people in my life ever did.

My family was full of broken relationships, betrayals, lies, and disappointment. As I got older, I trusted the wrong men and found myself hurt over and over again. Each heartbreak only deepened my desire to find something real—something meaningful.

After a long and painful relationship filled with emotional, physical, and mental abuse, I lost myself. I stopped searching for love altogether. I stopped caring. I used people, made reckless choices, and convinced myself none of it mattered. But even then, underneath all the pain and anger, I still longed for love. I still hoped to find someone who would love me for who I am and never walk away.

I know the kind of love you see in movies and romance novels isn't realistic. Real life isn't a fairy tale. But those stories were the closest thing I had to an example of what love could be.

Throughout my life, I've always been someone who gives. Sometimes I've given far more than I should have. I've helped people who didn't deserve it. I've stood by people who had hurt me. That's just who I am. I care deeply, and while that's one of my greatest strengths, it can also be one of my biggest weaknesses.

In every relationship I've had, I've always been the one who loved harder, cared more, and gave more. Relationships aren't supposed to be a competition, but it's always been obvious. I pour everything I have into the people I love because I'm hoping they'll love me the same way in return.

Do I give too much? Absolutely.

Do I need to? Probably not.

But that's who I am.

I love in both big and small ways. I want the people I care about to feel valued, appreciated, and loved because I know exactly how painful it feels when someone doesn't make you feel that way.

My husband and I are complete opposites in many ways. He's happiest staying home, relaxing, and saving money. I'm the one who wants adventures, experiences, and spontaneity. I love surprises; he hates them. I enjoy exploring; he'd rather stay comfortable.

He's also not naturally romantic, and I've accepted that. I don't need grand gestures or expensive gifts. I don't need him to shower me with things. What I do want are small reminders that I'm on his mind.

A handwritten note telling me why he loves me.

My favorite dessert waiting for me after a hard day.

A random dance with me in the living room.

A text during the day because something reminded him of me.

A kiss on the forehead as he walks by.

An unexpected "I love you" simply because he felt it in that moment.

To me, those things matter. They make me feel seen. They make me feel chosen.

The more loved I feel, the more secure I feel in my relationship.

Sometimes I struggle because my husband shows love differently than I do. He cleans the house. He cooks dinner. He takes care of responsibilities. I know those things are valuable, and I appreciate them. But sometimes I wonder: if he would be doing those things whether I was here or not, how am I supposed to recognize them as expressions of love?

For me, love feels personal. It's the things done specifically because of me, not simply things that need to get done. It's the thoughtfulness behind an action. It's knowing that someone was thinking about me when I wasn't around.

My husband sometimes says I'm materialistic. The truth is, I like nice things, but I don't expect him to buy them for me. Most of the things I want, I buy for myself.

What I truly want isn't money, gifts, or expensive surprises.

I want thoughtfulness.

I want effort.

I want connection.

We've been together for almost four years. By now, he knows who I am. He knows what makes me smile. He knows the little things that make me feel loved.

At the end of the day, that's all I've ever wanted.

Not perfection.

Not grand gestures.

Not fairy tales.

Just love.

A love I can trust.

A love that feels safe.

A love that shows up.

A love that lets me know, without question, that no matter what happens, I'm not facing life alone.

Because after everything I've been through, that's all I've ever really craved.