People talk about love like it's this universal, simple thing. Something you're supposed to feel, say, and recognize right away. It shows up in songs, in stories, in social media captions written for strangers. But for me? Love has never been that easy to define.
I've spent a long time wondering if I even know what love feels like. I know I love my son. That's never been in question. But beyond that? It's murky. The word gets thrown around so often that it sometimes feels hollow. People say it too fast, too casually, or without the weight I think it deserves. And if love is supposed to be this deep, world-shifting thing, then why does it sometimes sound like filler?
When I think about what love really is, what it means to me, it's never been about romantic gestures or perfectly worded affirmations. It's about this:
Complete protection of the other person. Acceptance and care of them, no matter who they are.
Love, to me, means choosing someone. Over and over. It means showing up even when it's inconvenient, even when it's messy, even when it doesn't look like a Hallmark card. It's not decorative. It's not loud. It's not always sweet.
It's practical. It's sacred. It's "I'll shield you from the storm and make you a sandwich afterward."
That's the kind of love I understand. That's the kind of love I give.
And maybe that's why the way people use the word sometimes feels like it doesn't fit. Because I love in verbs, not just feelings. In loyalty, not lip service. In doing, not declaring.
So no, I'm not quick to say "I love you." But when I do? It means everything.
And maybe that's what makes it real.