thunderbolt, but real love is more like tending a garden. It’s choosing to forgive when he forgets your anniversary, to listen when she’s had a bad day, to keep showing up even when the spark feels dim. My grandparents were married for 60 years, and I never once heard them say “I love you” in grand terms. But I saw my grandfather help my grandmother tie her shoes when her hands shook, and my grandmother read to my grandfather when his eyes failed. Love, they taught me, isn’t just a feeling—it’s a thousand daily choices to put someone else’s needs before your own. It’s not always exciting, but it’s the kind that lasts.​The Fear of Vulnerability​I used to build walls around my heart—thick, high walls—because I was afraid of being hurt. I thought vulnerability was weakness, that letting someone see my flaws meant giving them power over me. Then I met someone who didn’t try to climb my walls—they sat beside them and said, “I’ll wait until you’re ready to let me in.” Slowly, I started opening doors: sharing my insecurities, admitting when I was wrong, letting myself be seen. It was terrifying, but in that terror, I found something beautiful: connection. Vulnerability isn’t weakness. It’s courage. It’s the brave choice to say, “This is me—and I’m worth loving, flaws and all.”​Nostalgia for What Was​Nostalgia is a bittersweet ache—a longing for a time that can never be revisited. I sometimes scroll through old photos: my childhood home with the creaky porch, summer nights with friends around a bonfire, the way my college dorm smelled like coffee and textbooks. It’s not that I want to go back; it’s that I miss the feeling of those mome

 thunderbolt, but real love is more like tending a garden. It’s choosing to forgive when he forgets your anniversary, to listen when she’s had a bad day, to keep showing up even when the spark feels dim. My grandparents were married for 60 years, and I never once heard them say “I love you” in grand terms. But I saw my grandfather help my grandmother tie her shoes when her hands shook, and my grandmother read to my grandfather when his eyes failed. Love, they taught me, isn’t just a feeling—it’s a thousand daily choices to put someone else’s needs before your own. It’s not always exciting, but it’s the kind that lasts.​
The Fear of Vulnerability​
I used to build walls around my heart—thick, high walls—because I was afraid of being hurt. I thought vulnerability was weakness, that letting someone see my flaws meant giving them power over me. Then I met someone who didn’t try to climb my walls—they sat beside them and said, “I’ll wait until you’re ready to let me in.” Slowly, I started opening doors: sharing my insecurities, admitting when I was wrong, letting myself be seen. It was terrifying, but in that terror, I found something beautiful: connection. Vulnerability isn’t weakness. It’s courage. It’s the brave choice to say, “This is me—and I’m worth loving, flaws and all.”​
Nostalgia for What Was​
Nostalgia is a bittersweet ache—a longing for a time that can never be revisited. I sometimes scroll through old photos: my childhood home with the creaky porch, summer nights with friends around a bonfire, the way my college dorm smelled like coffee and textbooks. It’s not that I want to go back; it’s that I miss the feeling of those mome

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