Tag: relationships

  • The “I Love You”

    Lately I’ve been digging. Digging deep, not in the romantic sense, but in the “why can’t I say I love you without sounding like I’m confessing to a crime?” kind of way. I realized that I can’t say it out loud. Not to my parents, not to my friends, not even to my plants. Apparently, I can whisper it to a city, but even then it’s in this weird, baby-talk tone like, “oh I wuv you.” Which is… not the same thing.

    I’ve tried practicing it in the mirror. “I love you.” Nope. My throat tightens. My face does this awkward twitch thing. It’s like my vocal cords are on strike.

    I started to wonder, how many times have I heard that phrase growing up? Not that my parents or grandparents didn’t love each other. They did. They just expressed it in ways that didn’t require actual words. Like, “Here, I cut you some fruit.” Or, “You’re getting pale, eat more iron.” Apparently, our family tree has a generational allergy to saying “I love you.” Maybe it’s cultural. Maybe it’s trauma. Or maybe we just prefer our love medium-rare, served through acts of service, not syllables.

    That tracks for me, though. Acts of service? My main love language. I show love by doing things. Cooking for someone. Listening to their existential crisis without checking my phone. Helping them pick an outfit that doesn’t scream midlife panic at 25. But sometimes that turns into overgiving, which I’m… still unlearning. Learning to say no without feeling like I’ve committed a felony. Learning to ask, “Can we meet at 6:30 instead of 7?” instead of martyring myself at a bar for half an hour writing blog drafts like this one.

    Words of affirmation, though? That’s where things get tricky. I see people throw “I love you” around like confetti. Girls saying it to someone they met ten minutes ago: “I love your energy.” And I’m like: wow, that’s a bold move. I admire it, but I also needed a nine-month period before my “I love you”s left the mouth to the person I loved with all the cells in my body. No offence girl, but I think I need to complete my 3 years of getting to know you period before I get to say “I love you.” 

    But maybe, just maybe, the real work isn’t about blurting it out. Maybe it’s about making peace with the feeling behind it. Letting love exist in whatever form it wants to, whether it’s a whispered “I love this city,” a packed lunch for someone you care about, or a silent I love you said internally because your voice still cracks when you try.

    Because love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s shy. Sometimes it’s clumsy. And sometimes it just needs a little practice before it comes out naturally, without the baby voice. And sometimes the people who don’t blurt it out, may be loving you the deepest, quietly. 

  • How blunt is too blunt?

    In a society where speaking your mind can quickly earn you a label; too much, too intense, too opinionated, we’ve collectively defaulted to “polite mode.”

    We sugarcoat. We tiptoe. We water ourselves down like a low-calorie version of truth, and we call it kindness.

    But in situations where the truth might sting momentarily, yet ultimately liberates the other person from a blind spot or a bad habit, who are we actually protecting by holding back?

    Is it them?
    Or is it us?

    Are we avoiding hurting their feelings…
    or just avoiding conflict altogether?

    Is it more loving to tell your partner that you’d really appreciate if he stopped leaving his socks all over the damn floor? Or to silently give them the side-eye while picking them up, punctuating the moment with a passive-aggressive sigh?

    Is it rude to tell your family “I love you, but your constant advice feels more like control than care”? Or is it honest?

    Is it disloyal to warn your friend that her new love interest has more red flags than a Formula 1 race? Or is it actually the loyalty test?

    The thing is: we think we’re avoiding drama by staying quiet.
    But what we’re really doing is delaying the explosion.

    Unspoken truths don’t disappear. They simmer.

    And the longer we let politeness take the wheel, the more tension piles up in the trunk, until we’re suddenly swerving off course, crashing over something that could’ve been a conversation.

    So maybe the better question is:

    How much future conflict do we create simply by avoiding present honesty?

    Written by a virgo. We won’t always hold back. Because we have regretted holding back when he had the chance to be brutally honest. And let’s face it, a virgo that doesn’t automatically tell you what they think is wrong with you, how much do they actually love you?

    If you have a virgo in your lives, kindly let us be brutally honest with you without taking it too personally. If you see a virgo trying to be fake-polite to keep the peace, it’s because they’re too afraid to lose you. Let us be ourselves, and try to see the criticism as an act of love. Because it honestly is. And we appreciate the brutal honesty back.

  • We Broke Up, But Why Did We Also Break Apart?

    on post-breakup territory wars and becoming strangers with people we once undressed our souls with

    No one warns you about the silent custody agreement after a breakup.

    You get your side of the city. I get mine.

    You get the bar near your place. I’ll avoid it like it’s cursed.

    I get the bookstore downtown, but only before 2PM, because I know that’s when you usually go.

    The mutual cafe? Dead to both of us.

    We don’t talk about it, but we feel it.

    And suddenly, we’ve turned a love story into a war over real estate.

    We used to walk these streets like we were creating a world together. Now we’re living in the ruins, divided like ex-nations.

    There’s no judge or jury…

    But somehow, we both know which cafés are now forbidden, which parks are now sacred, and whose friends are no longer “neutral ground.”

    And I can’t help but wonder why does a breakup have to mean a complete delete of the non-romantic parts of a connection?

    We weren’t just lovers. We were people.

    Friends, even.

    We shared music, dumb jokes, late-night thoughts about the meaning of life.

    We sat on balconies and talked about our parents.

    We slow-danced in kitchens.

    We cried. We laughed.

    We knew each other.

    So why is it that, after it ends, we’re supposed to act like we never existed?

    Why is “just friends” seen as a downgrade, not a grace?

    Why do their friends have to stop being our friends?

    Why is it suddenly “too weird” to say hi without pretending like the past didn’t happen?

    Why does the end of romance mean the end of all relating?

    Maybe it’s ego.

    Maybe it’s pain.

    Maybe it’s our culture telling us to “cut the cord” and never look back.

    But maybe, just maybe, we’ve forgotten how to hold space for nuance.

    Maybe two people can love each other deeply, part ways honestly, and still care, without it being “messy.”

    Maybe it’s possible to outgrow the role without erasing the person.

    To say:

    “I no longer want you as my partner, but I still respect who you are.”

    “I won’t be at your birthday party, but I hope someone brings your favorite cake.”

    “I’m not yours anymore, but I hope you’re happy.”

    “I’m moving on, but I remember us fondly.”

    We don’t have to vanish from each other’s lives like ghosts.

    We don’t have to pretend it didn’t matter.

    It did.

    It just doesn’t anymore.

    And maybe that’s okay.

  • Mercury’s in Gatorade Again, Isn’t It?

    You don’t need an astrologer to tell you that the planets are in the microwave or turned into lemonade, again. 

    Just open your window and listen, the neighbors are screaming about who left the yogurt out.

    Your mom suddenly decided now is the perfect time to critique your life decisions, your career, and the way you dress. 

    A guy from 10 years ago? Resurfaces via a “heyyy… hope you’re well, I’ve been thinking about you” message. 

    Your phone glitches just when you finally send a risky text.

    Your emails vanish.

    Your emotions don’t.

    The group chat is suspiciously quiet, and everyone’s “just been going through it.”

    Even your plants are looking at you sideways. And the birds are giving you spiritual downloads through eye contact.

    It’s not just Mercury.

    It’s the whole zodiac throwing a tantrum.

    Venus is crying in the shower, then putting on a sexy black dress and going out to flirt. 

    Mars is organizing your closet at 3AM. 

    Saturn’s giving everyone a pop quiz on boundaries.

    And Neptune’s making your dreams weirder than usual.

    (Oh hey the guy who’s not in my life and his entire friend group chilling at my childhood house!? Nice haircut btw!)

    So no, you don’t need a birth chart.

    You just need to know that every coffee shop line is now a test of your spiritual maturity.

    Your inbox is a battlefield.

    And your nervous system? A full-blown disco.

    But don’t worry.

    Like all those before, this too shall pass.

    Just maybe don’t sign any contracts, text your ex, or try to explain anything to your mom until it’s over.

    We’re just cosmically inconvenienced.

  • Can We Really Meet “The One” Before We’re Healed?

    …or are we just falling in love with different versions of our own wounds?

    At first, I thought I had a type.
    You know; emotionally unavailable, mysterious, says things like “I don’t believe in labels,” and somehow ruins me with a smile.
    But after the third version of the same man with a different star sign, I started to ask:
    Is this really my type… or is this my trauma playing dress-up?

    Because the truth is: we attract what we are.
    Not on the surface, not what we look like, or what we post, or even what we say we want.
    We attract from the core wound. From the energy we haven’t healed. From the version of us that still doesn’t fully believe we deserve the love we crave.

    So maybe the reason we keep falling for the same kinds of people isn’t bad luck or bad taste.
    Maybe it’s a mirror.
    Maybe it’s the universe screaming look at yourself.
    Maybe it’s that unresolved need to be chosen by someone who doesn’t know how to choose themselves.

    And here’s the cosmic twist that no one wants to say out loud:
    You might not meet the “right one” until you become the version of yourself who can actually receive them.

    Because soulmates aren’t here to complete us, they’re here to reflect us.
    And if we’re still fragmented, afraid, closed off or secretly addicted to chaos… Guess what we attract?

    Another incomplete mirror.

    So can we meet the one before we’re healed?
    Maybe.
    But chances are, we’ll push them away.
    Or sabotage it.
    Or not even recognize them, because we’re still wired to crave the pain we’re used to.

    Healing isn’t about being perfect.
    It’s about being aware.
    Aware enough to stop blaming everyone else for the ways we keep breaking our own heart.

    So if you keep attracting the same type… pause.
    Ask yourself: What part of me is still choosing this dynamic? What part of me thinks this is love?

    And more importantly… Who do I become when I stop chasing the reflection… and start becoming the source?

  • How Many Hearts Do We Break to Protect Ours?

    The one that got away (and never really left)

    aka: how do you move on when you’re still haunted?

    We all have that one.

    The one we fell for like fools in a free fall.

    No parachute. No plan. Just the dizzy, delusional, delicious hope that this was it.

    The great love. The one we’d tell stories about. The one that cracked us open and made everything before it look like a dress rehearsal.

    And then… they left.

    Maybe not all at once. Maybe slowly.

    Maybe they ghosted. Maybe they said it wasn’t the right time. Maybe they promised they’d come back.

    But in the end, they left, and we stayed.

    Stuck in the space they used to occupy.

    Haunted by memories. By songs. By phantom touches and texts we still read like scripture.

    And here’s the cruelest part: They don’t even have to be in our lives anymore to still be in our heads.

    So when someone new comes along, someone good, someone kind, someone who sees us without the chaos, we hesitate. We hear I love you from them and flinch.

    Because somewhere in the back of our mind, we’re still waiting for them.

    The one that got away. The one we’ve turned into a myth.

    The one who could return just when we finally feel safe again; to test us, tempt us, or worse… ruin the soft, steady love we almost let ourselves believe in.

    So we sabotage.

    We stay half-in, half-out.

    We love carefully. Quietly.

    Because we fear committing to someone who loves us… only to end up abandoned again.

    We fear breaking a good heart the way ours was once broken, and living with the guilt and the grief.

    It’s a tragic kind of math:

    How many hearts do we break just trying to protect our own?

    And at what point does protection become isolation?

    Maybe the real heartbreak isn’t when someone leaves.

    Maybe it’s when we stop letting ourselves be loved, because we’re still holding space for a ghost.

  • The Rise of the Almost-Relationship

    What are we?

    aka the question that ends the thing you thought you were in

    We used to date. Now we… what?

    We talk.

    We vibe.

    We hang out.

    We Netflix and heal.

    We hold hands in secret.

    We text like lovers and kiss like we mean it.

    But ask what are we? 

    And suddenly, there’s a glitch in the matrix.

    Somewhere along the way, “relationship” became a dirty word. Too much commitment, too much pressure, too soon. So instead, we invented a dictionary of labels for what we do instead of date. And somehow, they all sound like excuses to stay ambiguous.

    Situationship.

    Slow-burn.

    Energetic match.

    Exclusive, but not official.

    Just vibing.

    Not ready for labels, but also don’t want you with anyone else.

    It’s modern love; part connection, part confusion, and a whole lot of spiritual bypassing disguised as “going with the flow.”

    And I’ll admit, sometimes it does flow.

    You find someone who mirrors your wounds and your music taste. You share vulnerable voice notes and late-night cuddles. You become their emotional safe space, their therapist, their muse. You’re not “together,” but they don’t want to lose you either.

    Until one day, they do.

    And you’re left grieving something that never had a name.

    You can’t even say you broke up. There was nothing to break.

    No title. No anniversary. No shared Google calendar.

    Just memories, just heartbreak, just silence.

    So what do you call the thing you lost?

    Because in the language of modern love, there are a million ways to be almost, and barely any ways to be real.

    And maybe that’s the problem.

  • When Did “I love you” Become So Difficult?

    When we were 14, “I love you” was practically mandatory. You’d exchange a few texts, hang out at the mall, hold hands, and then, before the month was up, someone would drop the three words. I love you. Boom. Official. Now you’re a couple. Congratulations, your Facebook status can now say “in a relationship.” It was reckless, dramatic, naive… and also kind of beautiful.

    Fast forward a decade and saying I love you too soon is more taboo than ghosting someone mid-text thread. In fact, saying it at all; even after months of emotional intimacy, late-night conversations, and exclusive sleepovers, feels like you’re pulling a pin on a grenade.

    We used to be fearless with love. Now we treat “I love you” like it’s a confession of a crime.

    How did we get here?

    Somewhere between adolescence and adulting, love became a strategy instead of a feeling. Now we’re told to wait, to play it cool, to act unbothered. We read texts like tarot cards.

    “Goodnight x” – is the ‘x’ a kiss or just a filler?

    “He said he cares about me” – does that mean love or… like-like?

    We overanalyze, over-wait, and overthink the thing that used to come out of our mouths like breathing. We used to say “I love you” because we felt it. Now we only say it when we’re sure it’s safe, or worse, when we know it won’t change anything.

    And let’s be honest: as women, saying “I love you” first is like emotional Russian roulette. One wrong move and you’re “too intense,” “too emotional,” or the dreaded “too much.” You say “I love you” too soon, and suddenly he’s out the door with a half-assed excuse and a confused look like why would you say that? As if love isn’t the entire point of this whole damn thing.

    But the real question is; are we actually afraid to say it?

    Or are we just afraid it won’t be said back?

    Because love is brave. Vulnerable. Messy. And in a world obsessed with curated perfection, algorithms, and detachment as a personality trait, love might just be the last raw, uncool thing left. Which makes it even more sacred.

    So maybe, just maybe, saying I love you isn’t the problem.

    Maybe being seen is.

    And maybe we’re all still those 14-year-old kids; fumbling, scared, hopeful… Waiting for someone to say it first.