A Note on Love

Connection, complicity, admiration, excitement, respect, support, trust.
Those are the first things that come to mind when I think about love.

Not just romantic love, but all kinds of love.

But when it comes to romantic love, something shifts.
It goes deeper.
It burns stronger.
It carries intensity.

What I find interesting is this:

In non-romantic relationships, we give things more time.
More space. We allow people to be who they are without rushing the process.

But in romantic love, we often do the opposite.

We want certainty.
We want clarity.
We want it to make sense - quickly.
We want to label what’s happening.

And I often wonder:
what would happen if we approached all kinds of love the same way?

Being with someone has never felt casual to me.

It’s always been a choice.

A choice to share my whole life or just a part of it.
My dreams.
My struggles.
My fears.
My joy.

And it’s also a choice I’ve questioned more than once.

Because at the beginning, it always feels right.
Or at least, right in that moment.

But time reveals things and eventually, we’re faced with a quieter question:

Does this still make sense for who I am now?

The truth is, we get attached to what we’ve built, or what we have idealised.

And the idea of starting over can feel terrifying.

Sometimes it is, because starting over means relearning yourself.

Learning how to be alone again.
How to sit with your own thoughts.
How to feel without distractions.

And that’s not easy.

Because looking forward often requires looking back.

At the things we’ve avoided, at the things we thought we had already healed.

Sometimes I ask myself questions like:

Have I really healed?
Have I forgiven the people who hurt me?
Have I forgiven myself for the ways I’ve hurt others?

Memories never leave.

They just stay quiet, but present. Like small ghosts.

And sometimes they remind me of what I once loved.
What I once believed in.
And maybe… what I still miss.

There are moments when I feel lost in all of it.

But I’ve come to understand that missing something doesn’t mean wanting it back, it just means that it was important at some point in life.

I revisit emotions I thought had already passed.

And I realise:

Some things don’t disappear.
They just wait to be understood differently, whenever we’re ready for it.

Even with all of that,
I still believe in love.

Maybe not a “perfect” version - but a version that feels true.

I care deeply.
I love deeply.
I give.
I support.

And for a long time, I thought that was too much.

But I’ve come to understand something:

People can only receive what they’re ready for.

It doesn’t matter how much you give.

Some moments in love feel empty in a way that’s hard to explain.

And sometimes, it’s not just the present moment.

It’s the weight of everything that came before it.

All the past heartbreaks layered together.

But still,

I choose honesty.
I choose intensity.
Even when it’s harder, when it’s uncertain.

Because love, in all its forms,
is one of the most complex and beautiful experiences we have.

The way we show up in relationships
often comes from places we don’t even remember.

Childhood.
Past experiences.
Unspoken fears.

We carry all of it.

And we spend so much time trying to understand:

Am I the problem?
Is the other person the problem?

But the truth is -

Our behaviours are shaped by everything we’ve lived. By how we’ve learned to cope.

Grief is just part of that.

It reminds us that something is ending.
That something mattered.

And that something is changing.

But there is also power in that.

Because we can rebuild it.

And sometimes, we need to let something fall apart
just to create space for something new.

As long as we don’t let everything collapse,
we can keep building.

Again.
And again.

And sometimes - all it takes is choosing to try.

- With love, Phellipe

A Note on Love

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