This morning, I was rummaging through some old jewelry boxes looking for something when I stumbled upon a few old photographs. Most were random snapshots of family, friends and events, but one in particular made me stop — a picture of my high school sweetheart. He was just sitting there grinning for the camera. I felt my throat tighten as memories began to surface. For a moment, I could almost hear the laughter, the long talks, the innocence of that season.
For a moment, I just stared at the photo — smiling, tearing up a little, and remembering the warmth of that time. He really did have a way of making me laugh, even on days when I didn’t want to. We had fun together, and for the most part, things were good. But as time went on, my heart began to drift. I wanted to experience more — though I can’t tell you exactly what “more” meant at that time. Maybe I wanted freedom, growth, or adventure. Whatever it was, I convinced myself that moving on was the right choice.
We parted ways on good terms, and I went on with my life, but as I moved into my twenties, I sometimes found myself thinking about that relationship with a sense of quiet nostalgia. It wasn’t that I wanted to rekindle it — it was more of an understanding, years later, of what I had but didn’t fully appreciate at the time.
The truth is, I didn’t really know how to love properly. My idea of love was holding on too tightly, confusing constant connection with closeness. I thought love meant being inseparable — always together, always in contact, always available. I mistook attachment for affection, intensity for intimacy.
Boy, was I wrong.
That kind of love wasn’t rooted in security; it was born out of fear. Fear of being alone, fear of not being enough, fear that if I loosened my grip, I’d lose people altogether. What I didn’t realize was that real love doesn’t suffocate — it gives space to breathe. It trusts without demanding. It allows each person to grow without fear that growth will pull them apart.
Not knowing what healthy love looked like shaped every relationship I had. A few experiences taught me valuable lessons that refined me. Many left deep marks that took time and prayer to heal, and are still healing today. There are parts of my story I don’t talk about — not because of shame, but because some lessons are meant to be private. Still, every heartbreak, every disappointment, and every unexpected ending taught me something about myself and about love itself.
That’s the strange beauty of life, isn’t it? It’s a constant unfolding — a mix of laughter and loss, of holding on and letting go. We grow through holding the tension between joy and pain, and somehow both are needed. Losing what we once took for granted can become the soil where wisdom grows.
When I look back now, I don’t feel regret. I feel gratitude. I can see how every person who has been part of my story left an imprint on my heart. Even the ones I no longer speak to — even those who only appear in faded photographs — helped shape the person I’ve become.
I’ve learned that love, at its best, isn’t about control or fear. It’s about trust, patience, and peace. It’s about learning to love yourself in a way that overflows into how you love others. And sometimes, it takes losing something good to recognize what love truly looks like when it’s pure, healthy, and whole.
So yes, it’s true — you don’t always know what you have until it’s gone. But maybe that’s how we learn to see more clearly. Maybe the loss itself is what teaches us to love better next time — with more gratitude, more grace, and a deeper understanding of what truly matters.
Because in the end, every person, every memory, and every goodbye becomes part of the story that shapes us — not into who we once were, but into who we’re meant to be. ❤️
Love. x
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