Love is not meant to fix you | Why, What, How Love?

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The hard truth I learnt in my search for love

Love is not meant to fix you|Source: Medium

Why love💖?

I grew up yearning for love not the grand, sweeping kind in fairy tales and movies, but the quiet kind, the kind that simply is.

My parents never turned away from me, left me hungry or cold. Yet, somehow, we spoke different languages of love. The house was filled with words and sentences, but no understanding. Affection got lost in translation, tangled in expectations that turn into gibberish.

Their love was present, but it came with terms and conditions. Love had to be earned with good grades, obedience, sacrifice. Be a good daughter, be polite, put family first, and then you might be worthy of it. The list of demands grew heavier with time, and no matter how hard I tried, I could never carry it all.

At some point, I stopped trying. Not out of rebellion, but exhaustion. Their love felt like a test I was doomed to fail, no matter how meticulously I prepared. Their love felt like labour.

So I looked elsewhere. I believed that love—romantic, dramatic, platonic, whatever — could save me. That somewhere out there was a person who would finally make me feel enough.

I believed love could fix me, patch all the places in my heart that were ripped from trying too hard. I believed love was the answer. The magical cure. The missing piece.

What love?

I can’t say that I understand love — not fully, not certainly, not yet. To me, love has always been something abstract, elusive. A distant warmth. A soft, quiet home where I could shed my pain and imperfections without fear of being seen as unworthy.

But as I stepped into adulthood, I fell victim to the glamorised depiction of love. I bought into the shimmering idea that love should look like grand gestures, luxury cars filled with flowers, spontaneous getaways, and diamond rings. Suddenly and unnoticeably, I too started to commodify love and put a price tag on affection.

I stopped offering love naturally and freely. I began to keep score. Like my parents, I made love something people had to earn.

We don’t always notice when this begins — when we start dissecting people, quietly measuring them against invisible criteria. Only those who pass get to stay. And when we give our hearts to the wrong ones, we don’t blame them. We blame ourselves.

How could I be so foolish, so naive? I should have evaluated more clearly. Maybe if I did, I would not be so broken.

I was ashamed of giving love to the people who shattered it. It was like placing a fragile truth in reckless mouths. Like handing over a gun to a criminal. What followed was not just pain — it was the humiliation of being seen, then discarded.

Sooner or later, I lost sight of what love really was. Love started to become blurry, murky, ugly — something that people can use against me. So I stopped looking.

How love?

But no matter how hard we try to resist, the need for love is woven into our very being. It’s programmed deep inside us, an unspoken code running silently within our flesh.

I still yearned for love, silently hoping that one day it would answer me back.

So I set out to study love — to love in a correct way, properly and perfectly. I no longer wanted to stumble through it. I wanted to get it right.

That was until love showed up in its simplest, most natural form.

He doesn’t love me with a list. He doesn't assess me or try to decipher me. His love needs no explanation, no formula or method — it simply exists, as effortless and instinctive as trees lean toward the sun and clouds move with the wind. His love wasn’t something to be proven or justified. It just was.

And slowly, through him, I began to see the love I had missed all along. My parents, too, loved in their own quiet, complicated ways: in the fruit they sliced after a fight, in the invisible weight they carried so I wouldn’t have to, in their fierce desire to protect me from a world that had bruised them. Their love wasn’t a weapon, but a shield — clumsy at times, but built with the hope of protection.

It took me more than 20 years to understand their language, but I finally do. There is no single way to love. No certain definition is written in the stars.

People love the way they know how. The way they were taught. The way they survived.

Love is like the unique patterns of DNA, the intricate strings of fingertips — unique, instinctive, and deeply personal.

Love is not meant to fix you

I have loved deeply people, places, fleeting moments suspended in memory. I’ve built relationships that felt like soul recognition. I’ve given love freely, and I’ve received it with gratitude. And still, some days, I feel incomplete. Uneasy. Unanchored.

My life is full of love, yet there’s still a quiet ache I can’t explain. A longing that vibrates in my bones — the lingering fear of not having enough, that humanistic desire to have more. I used to think that love would heal that ache, that it would fill the hollow spaces and make me whole. But I was wrong.

Love doesn’t complete you. It doesn’t erase the questions or mend the wounds. It doesn’t fill every room inside you. And maybe it’s not supposed to.

Maybe we’re not meant to be finished. Maybe we’re meant to remain slightly undone.

So that there will always be something to look forward to, to search for, to live for.

love💖 is never meant to fix you.
it’s meant to hold you.
to walk beside you, quietly and patiently.
to be a witness of your continuance.
not a cure, but a companion.
not a destination, but a gentle light along the journey.💖

Source: Medium/janelle 

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