The thought came in quietly this morning, but it landed hard:

“Why would anyone want to love me?”

Not out of self-pity — just truth. Just reality.
Because I’ve never been loved consistently.
Not by my mother.
Not by my sister.
Not by past partners.
Not in a way that felt secure, stable, and safe.

And now that I’ve faced that, now that I’ve stopped spinning stories to soften it, I sit here wondering:

Who would want to come into that?
Who would walk into a life like mine — raw, unstable, so deeply human — and choose to stay?

Because I’m not offering a rescue mission.
There’s no polished version of me waiting just around the corner.
There’s just me. Healing. Slowly. Openly.
Still tired. Still unsure. Still real.

And I get scared — not just of being unloved, but of being unlovable.
Of being too late. Too broken. Too much.

But then, somewhere in the quiet, a different voice whispers:

Maybe the kind of person I’m longing for isn’t someone who wants to fix me…
Maybe they’re someone who wants to walk beside me, just as I am.

Not because they feel sorry for me.
Not because they want to sacrifice themselves.
But because they see me — truly see me — and still choose to stay.

Because maybe the things I’m most afraid to show are the things that will one day make someone feel safe with me.
Not in spite of my humanity — but because of it.

I don’t know when or how that kind of love might find me.
But I know this:

I’m not waiting to be rescued.
I’m just learning to stop hiding.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what makes me lovable after all.