Diaries of a Twenty-Six-Year Old Girl

I thought love was supposed to bring out my chaos—
the highs and lows were ecstasy for my soul,
something that could cure my sadness.

I thought I felt alive.

But I was drowning in uncertainty—
pulled under by the very thing I thought would save me.

No one taught me that calm means you’re safe.

Safe love doesn’t mean hitting.
It doesn’t mean yelling.
It doesn’t mean constant tears or starting fights just to hear, “I love you, please don’t go.”

What if calm and safety sound like:
“I’m here for you.”
“I won’t chase you.”
“I respect you.”

And when doubt started to creep in—when I began to wonder, “Where are the butterflies?”—maybe that was my moment to pause and realize: that was never what love was supposed to feel like. An activated nervous system was never the goal. “Butterflies” were just another form of my anxieties, dressed up as something I thought I needed to survive—something I thought was real.

But real love doesn’t make you beg.
It doesn’t make you chase.
It doesn’t ask you to choose someone else over yourself.

It doesn’t come in the form of dopamine highs—
leaving you in constant uncertainty, wondering if they’ll choose you.

It doesn’t ask someone else to come in and fix you.
Real love understands that healing is your responsibility.

A stable foundation is built by two steady people—
two solid homes, steady enough to weather any storm.

Because real love understands: love is a choice, not a dependency.

You were never meant to make me happy—
that was always my responsibility.

You were never meant to come save me.
I had to save myself.

And in doing so, I finally killed my ugly butterflies.

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