Why I Still Believe in Love (Despite Everything)

Why I Still Believe in Love (Despite Everything)

Love wasn’t something I was raised to trust.

Growing up, I watched two people who were supposed to love each other forget how. My parents’ relationship was more of a cold war than a connection. There was no affection in the little things—no hand-holding, no soft smiles, no warmth in “how was your day?” They didn’t talk. They snapped. They didn’t listen. They waited to reply. Eventually, they became two strangers who shared a last name and a kitchen.

I remember being 10 years old, hiding under the stairs with a pillow over my ears as the yelling upstairs became the background music of my childhood. Even then, I remember thinking, If that’s love, I want no part of it.

And yet, despite everything—I fell.

I was 21 when I met Daniel. He was charming in the kind of way that disarms you. He listened, asked questions, remembered details. He made me feel visible. I told myself it was different. It felt different.

The first few months were a dream. The late-night calls, spontaneous road trips, the way he'd hold my hand like it meant something every time—it all felt like I’d finally discovered what the movies had promised. I told him things I had never told anyone. I let him see parts of me I kept hidden, even from myself.

That was the first lesson love taught me: when it’s new, it feels safe to hope.

But love, or what I thought was love, started to shift. Slowly, subtly. He’d get distant for days, then come back with an apology wrapped in flowers. He’d make small comments about the way I dressed, who I talked to, how I spent my time. At first, it felt like care. Then it felt like control.

I ignored the red flags. I had waited so long to feel chosen, I was afraid to question what came after.

Then came the betrayal. I found out from someone else—he had been seeing another girl. For months.

When I confronted him, he looked me in the eye and said, “It didn’t mean anything.” As if that would undo the months I spent loving someone who wasn’t truly mine.

I left. Not just him—I left the version of me that believed love was supposed to hurt. But I didn’t leave without scars.

The Season of Numb

What followed was a season of numbness. I closed myself off. I convinced myself that love was just a trick—biology and unmet needs wearing perfume and good intentions. I avoided vulnerability. I kept conversations shallow and my heart guarded. I told people I was just "working on myself," but the truth was: I didn’t trust anyone. Not even me.

That was the second lesson: heartbreak doesn’t just make you afraid of others—it makes you question your own judgment.

I spent the next two years rebuilding myself from the inside out. Therapy, solitude, journaling, cutting ties with people who only liked me broken. I relearned how to enjoy my own company. I traveled solo. I got used to going to coffee shops and ordering for one. I learned how to hold my own hand.

And just when I was no longer looking for love—just when I had made peace with being okay alone—he came along.

Not Daniel. Not someone with perfect timing or a carefully rehearsed smile. Just a man with kind eyes, a crooked laugh, and a steady presence. His name was Evan.

He didn’t sweep me off my feet. He helped me stay grounded. He didn’t say all the right things. He just showed up—consistently. He didn't ask for perfection. He gave space for my truth, my fears, my healing.

He saw the cracks in me and didn’t flinch. In fact, he leaned in closer.

Learning to Love Again

Falling for Evan didn’t feel like falling at all—it felt like choosing. Every day, every conversation, every vulnerable moment was a choice. To open up. To trust again. To believe.

There were moments when the ghosts of my past showed up. When I flinched at kindness, doubted sincerity, questioned the quiet. But he never rushed me. Never made me feel wrong for needing time.

He taught me something no one else had before: love doesn’t fix you—it makes space for you to fix yourself.

With him, I learned that love can be patient. Love can be gentle. It doesn’t always arrive with fireworks—it arrives with presence. With small gestures, honest words, and steady hands.

It was through him that I realized I had gotten love wrong all along.

Love isn’t supposed to be perfect. It’s not meant to be painless. But it is supposed to be safe. Respectful. Mutual. Evolving.

Moral of the Story:

I still believe in love—not because I’ve only known the good parts, but because I’ve survived the hard ones.

Love broke me once, but it also built me. It taught me what to run from, but also what to walk toward. And most of all, it taught me that love worth having never asks you to lose yourself to be loved.

So yes, despite everything, I still believe in love.

Not the storybook kind.

But the real kind—the kind you choose, grow, and build.

And maybe… that kind believes in me too.

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Thank you for reading...

Regards: Fazal Hadi