In the Time of Love

There are moments in life that seem to stretch beyond time—moments where everything slows down, and the world, for a breath or two, moves in rhythm with your heartbeat. That’s what it feels like to live in the time of love.

I don’t mean fairy tale love, or perfect, polished Instagram couple love. I mean the messy, vulnerable, real kind of love. The kind that makes you pause mid-sentence just to study someone’s face. The kind that leaves you breathless—not always from passion, but from the rawness of being seen.

We don’t talk enough about how terrifying love can be. Everyone’s quick to praise it, to chase it, to build their lives around it. But to love is to risk. It means letting someone see your cracks, your past, your insecurities, and trusting that they’ll hold all of that with care.

Love doesn’t always look like fireworks. Sometimes, it looks like someone remembering how you take your coffee. Or sitting silently next to you while you process the weight of your day. It’s someone reaching out—not with grand gestures, but with quiet, steady presence.

I’ve come to believe that love is less about the moment it begins, and more about the moments it endures. Anyone can fall in love. But to stay in it? That takes work. Patience. Forgiveness. A little grace. And sometimes, starting over again and again, even with the same person.

In the time of love, we learn to soften. Not in a weak way, but in the kind of way that reshapes the heart. We begin to notice more. Speak less harshly. Hold each other a little tighter, especially when words fail.

And love isn’t just romantic. The time of love is just as alive in the warmth of friendship, in the gentle scolding of a parent who worries too much, in the way a pet curls against you like you’re their whole world. It’s in the way we show up, when it would be easier to turn away. It’s in the choosing—day after day—to keep caring.

Some people experience love like a blazing summer storm—quick, powerful, and gone too soon. Others, like me, have found it more like the shifting of seasons. Sometimes quiet, sometimes wild, but always moving us into something new.

I’ve also learned that being in love and being loved aren’t the same thing. You can be completely enchanted with someone who doesn’t truly care for you. You can also be cherished quietly by someone you’ve overlooked. Love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it waits patiently in the background, hoping you’ll slow down long enough to notice it.

Love can hurt. That’s the honest truth. It can unravel you. It can make you question your worth. But it can also put you back together, stronger, kinder, more aware. When love ends, we mourn—not just the person, but the version of ourselves we were with them. We grieve what could have been, and sometimes, what never was.

Yet even after heartbreak, we love again. And that’s the magic of it. The heart keeps opening, even when it’s been bruised. We risk again. We trust again. Sometimes clumsily, sometimes with a cautious edge—but the heart doesn’t want to live in fear. It wants connection. It wants to try.

I’ve had love that didn’t last. I’ve had love that changed shape. I’ve had love I had to walk away from for my own peace. But none of it was wasted. Even the most painful relationships taught me something—about myself, about what I needed, about what I deserved.

In the time of love, you learn to listen—not just to others, but to your own needs. You realize that love isn’t just something to receive; it’s something you give to yourself, too. The more I’ve honored my own heart, the more I’ve found love that mirrors it.

There’s something sacred about growing alongside someone. Not changing them. Not fixing them. But witnessing them, fully, as they evolve—and having them do the same for you. That’s when love becomes a kind of sanctuary. A soft place to land. A light in the storm.

We live in a world that often confuses love with possession, with perfection, with performance. But real love? It doesn’t demand that you shrink. It asks you to expand. It doesn’t shame you for your mess—it pulls up a chair and says, “Let’s sort through it together.”

So, here’s what I know: In the time of love, we are at our most human. Our most brave. Our most alive. We see the beauty in the flawed, the miracle in the mundane. And even when it ends, even when it breaks us—we are always changed by it.

Maybe that’s the point.