At Seven Years Old, I Thought Love Was a Promise

At seven years old, I thought love was a promise.

I believed it was something you said once and meant forever, like crossing your heart or sealing a letter you never planned to open again. I didn’t understand conditions or endings. I didn’t know people could change their minds. I only knew that when someone said they cared, it felt solid, like something you could stand on without falling through.

I learned this the way children learn most things—by watching.

I watched adults hug goodbye in doorways and say, “I’ll be back soon.” I watched hands held tightly in public, as if letting go might cause something important to disappear. I assumed love worked the same way as bedtime stories and routines. Once it started, it stayed.

There was a boy in my class back then. We sat next to each other because our last names were close in the alphabet. He shared his crayons with me and told me secrets that didn’t matter but felt important. One day, he said we’d always be friends. I believed him completely. Why wouldn’t I?

When he moved away without saying goodbye, I didn’t feel angry. I felt confused. Promises weren’t supposed to do that. They weren’t supposed to vanish quietly.

No one explained it to me. Life just moved on, and I learned to move with it, even though something inside me stayed stuck on the idea that words were unbreakable.

As I grew older, that belief followed me.

I carried it into friendships where I gave more than I should have, into relationships where I stayed longer than I was happy. When someone said they loved me, I treated it like a contract. I adjusted myself to fit their needs. I overlooked the moments that didn’t feel right. I told myself love required patience, even when patience started to feel like silence.

I didn’t know how to leave once I’d been promised anything.

Because leaving felt like failure.

I thought walking away meant I hadn’t tried hard enough or believed deeply enough. I thought it meant I misunderstood love entirely. So I stayed. I stayed through discomfort, through shrinking versions of myself, through apologies that repeated without changing anything.

It took years for me to understand what seven-year-old me couldn’t.

Love isn’t a promise because promises can be broken. Love is a choice, made over and over again. And sometimes, it’s a choice someone stops making while you’re still trying.

That realization didn’t come all at once. It arrived slowly, in moments that felt small but lingered longer than they should have. A conversation that ended too quickly. A feeling of being unheard. The quiet exhaustion of explaining yourself again and again.

One day, I noticed I was holding onto words instead of actions. I was remembering what had been said instead of what was happening. And for the first time, I questioned whether love was supposed to feel this lonely.

Letting go wasn’t dramatic. There was no final argument or grand ending. It was just a moment of honesty I could no longer avoid. I admitted that staying wasn’t loyalty—it was fear. Fear of being wrong. Fear of starting over. Fear of disappointing the version of myself that once believed love was permanent.

I still think seven-year-old me wasn’t entirely wrong.

Love should feel safe. It should feel steady. It should feel like something you don’t have to beg for. But now I know this: love isn’t proven by how long you endure it. It’s proven by how freely it allows you to be yourself.

If I could speak to that child now, I wouldn’t take the belief away. I would only add to it.

I would say: love can be a promise—but only when both people keep choosing it.

And when they don’t, leaving isn’t failure.

Sometimes, it’s the first honest promise you make to yourself.