“What if I fail?”

“That’s okay, I still love you.”

Disbelief. Then, a wave of relief washed over me like receiving a warm blanket after standing in the cold for so long. It’s okay. Just that. Two words that seem to relieve my soul from all the pressure I’ve been carrying.

For some it was lullabies they heard while growing up, for me it was a sharp repeated shouting, echoes of pain, and the constant thrumming of fear. That noise taught me love meant staying silent and occupying smaller spaces, it meant squeezing into molds I was never meant to fit in. And this became a secret burden I carried, a very heavy one where the broken pieces of my family were all in my arms. 

 Love, as I’ve known it, has been both a force and solace. It never arrived quietly, nor did it leave without leaving me unraveled. Growing up, love wasn't something I thought I was meant to receive, I didn’t know that love could hold me and speak in soft and unspoken tones. It felt like a currency I was forever short of, something I had to give constantly, even when it drained me. It was something I thought I needed to give that perhaps if I gave enough, maybe, I would be seen, I would fit in and most of all—be loved.