There were so many moments I was loved and didn’t know how to receive it.

I look back now and see the quiet gestures—the text that checked in when I withdrew, the friend who waited for me to open up, the teacher who saw through the silence. I remember the girl who looked at me like I mattered, even when I couldn’t meet her eyes. I think of my son, arms open, ready to forgive, even before I’ve said the words. And the dog who curled by my side, who didn’t ask for anything but presence.

At the time, I couldn’t hold it.
It didn’t reach me.
Not because they didn’t mean it,
but because I didn’t know how to let the love in.

When you’ve spent years armoured up—protecting what’s soft, hiding what’s been hurt—love can feel dangerous. Kindness feels suspicious. Support feels unfamiliar. And so I turned away, sometimes subtly, sometimes sharply. I didn’t reply. I joked instead of feeling. I shut the door before anyone could get close enough to see how much I wanted them to stay.

There is grief in that.
The grief of all the love that came and couldn’t land.
The people who tried. The moments that passed.
The connection I craved but didn’t know how to accept.

But grief is a strange kind of teacher. It doesn’t just show you what you missed—it shows you what’s possible now.

Because even though I couldn’t take it in then…
I’m learning to now.

I’m learning that love isn’t just about the big declarations. It’s the way someone says “text me when you’re home.” It’s remembering how you take your tea. It’s someone sitting with you in silence, not trying to fix anything.

I’m learning to notice.
To pause.
To soften.

And slowly, I’m letting it in.

Not perfectly. Not all at once. But enough.
Enough to know that love has always been here—
and that maybe, just maybe, I’m ready now to receive it.