I Think I Found Out What Love Is

I’m the kind of person who believes everything happens for a reason. And if that’s true, then there must be a reason—one big enough, meaningful enough—to justify why I was born with a genetic mutation.

Yes, I have an unusual body. My hands carry fewer fingers than you’re expecting. My hands have fewer fingers than you’re expecting—but not everyone notices right away. There is no shame in how I move through the world, and because of that, I navigate it with ease. When people do notice, it often says more about seeing than about me. It’s a difference that exists quietly, shaping parts of my experience without defining who I am.

Ironically, I didn’t really think about that until I turned thirty. I believe a mix of cultural norms—where we’re taught not to point, not to ask, not to say anything—quietly pushed that part of me aside. My difference existed, but it wasn’t named. It didn’t define me, yet it didn’t fully belong to me either. It lived in a strange in-between space: present, undeniable, but rarely acknowledged—by others or by myself.

Most people panic when they turn thirty. I didn’t. What happened to me was the opposite. I fell in love.

Not the romantic, fairy-tale kind. Or maybe it is a fairy tale—just a modern, counter-narrative one. I don’t know. What I do know is this: I fell in love with myself. And once that happened, I wanted to tell everyone everything about me.

That probably sounds crazy. Maybe even ridiculous. But what was I supposed to do? It felt like that moment when you meet someone so incredibly amazing that you fall instantly—and suddenly you can’t shut up about them. You tell your friends. Your family. You talk to yourself out loud (or is that just me?). You post on social media, fully aware that no one cares as much as you do.

That was the feeling. And honestly, I still feel it—only now I’m used to it.

That year, I even spent Christmas alone. But guess what? I wasn’t alone. I was with the best, most favourite company in the entire world: myself.

Jesus. That sounds so cheesy.

But it’s true. And it was one of the best Christmases I’ve ever had.

Apparently, when you’re in love, you want to take care of that person the best way you can. That’s what I did that day. I cooked, rested, listened to myself, stayed present. And it felt really good.

During that phase, I started noticing something interesting. Some people seemed far more interested in this—in my self-love—than in anything else I’d ever shared. Friends I hadn’t spoken to in years suddenly reached out. Even a very old ex-boyfriend sent me a sweet message on my birthday. I knew they had read my posts. I knew they liked them. But it felt like they wanted more.

More of what?

At first, I thought: My self-love can’t give them anything.

I was wrong. I was giving them something huge.

I was giving them hope—the hope that they could feel the same way about themselves.

When you talk about loving someone else, it’s beautiful—but you still need that other person. With self-love? Everything you need is already there. You just need you. And maybe getting closer to me was their way of reminding themselves of that truth.

Then it hit me.

I was inspiring people.

Oh. My. God.

This was actually happening. The thing I had quietly believed—what I thought my difference meant, what I had said out loud a few times to close friends—it was real. A close friend once texted me that someone she knew had seen me on Instagram, started following me, read my posts, and felt inspired.

Inspired.

OMG. That message. That day.

And I decided to tell my whole story.

This is chapter one, ladies and gentlemen.

Are you ready?

I hope you are—because I’m not.

But that’s just how life happens.