Love has had a very skewed meaning in my life.

For a long time, love was something I inherited without question —
defined by family dynamics, expectations, roles, and unspoken rules.
It was something you absorbed, adapted to, and carried forward as a baseline,
even when it felt confusing or conditional.

I didn’t realise for years that what we call love is often just what we’re used to.

Lately, I’ve been sitting with a different understanding.

Love, to me now, means truly seeing another person —
their light, their path, their inner world —
and allowing them to be exactly who they are
without the urge to fix, shape, or improve them.

It means recognising that each of us is walking a journey that is deeply personal and sacred.
Not something to interfere with.
Not something to control.

We are not meant to carry each other.
But we can walk side by side —
with respect, curiosity, and honesty.

Love, I’m learning, is not about merging out of fear,
or staying bound out of obligation.

It’s about co-creating meaning, beauty, and joy
simply by being who we authentically are —
together, yet whole within ourselves.

This version of love feels quieter.
Less dramatic.
But far more real.

And for the first time, it feels like something I can choose —
not just something I was taught to accept.