I think I was born to love.
I know—cheesy. But it’s the truest thing about me.

I’ve loved with a kind of ferocity my whole life, the kind that doesn’t ration itself, the kind that shows up fully and without armor. I’ve always hoped to be met there, but more often than not, I’ve only received fractions of what I’ve given. Pieces. Echoes.

And that’s okay. I’ve made peace with the quiet understanding that I may never be the one for anyone. No one will scan a crowded room, find my face, and silently thank the universe that I am theirs. I’ve been loved, yes—but the soul-deep love, the kind that rearranges you from the inside out, has always managed to slip past me.

I’ve come close. Painfully close.
But the moment my humanity shows—when I’m no longer effortless, when my flaws surface, or when something shinier drifts into view—I’m set aside. Folded up. Forgotten, like yesterday’s newspaper.

For a long time, I tried to edit myself into someone more lovable. Softer here. Smaller there. Easier. But eventually I understood what I had been missing all along: my imperfections aren’t evidence of unworthiness—they are the proof of me.

And I am not unfinished. I am not lacking.
I am simply someone who loves deeply in a world that often doesn’t know what to do with that.

JMS