The Velvet Type

“I think love is the butterfly.”

Love is such a fickle matter to discuss.

It’s what sells movies, fills books, and what poems torture themselves trying to understand. It’s human nature to be drawn to connection, to experience life alongside another.

So what does it mean to love? What defines it?

This is where it becomes overwhelming, because the answers differ. There is no singular definition for what it is to love and be loved. To be so deeply entwined with another’s soul that you begin to move through life as one, an uncompromising unit.

I find myself searching for that definition at this moment in my life.

If you asked me at 12, she would have told you love was something to earn. Something that had to be fought for, something you had to be worthy of to receive.

At 21, love was an inferno of pain. It was messy and confusing, invigorating yet draining.

At 23, to love was to suffer. To fear the pain you knew would follow, to run and hide from it.

So I locked my heart away, convinced it wouldn’t survive any other way.

It wasn’t until recently that I found myself wanting to open my heart again.

Not because someone swept in with fireworks or grand declarations, but because I had finally begun creating a life that no longer revolved around survival.

Somewhere along the way, the chaos began to quiet. The fear loosened its grip just enough for me to realize I had mistaken peace for emptiness all along.

When you’ve lived in a constant state of turbulence, stillness feels unfamiliar. You almost wait for something to shatter it.

And yet, despite every reason to keep it hidden, I unlocked the cage, pulled my heart from the shelf, and dusted it off.

I was reminded how beautiful it is to truly feel. To take all this care I’m capable of and allow it somewhere beyond myself.

That doesn’t mean I wasn’t afraid. Fear followed me closely, gnawing at me until I felt myself slipping back into a place I had already fought to get out of.

So I took a step back. I gave myself space.

And in that space, I’ve been able to look at things more clearly, not just through my heart, but with my mind, allowing myself to process what is rather than what I want it to be.

I think, in some ways, I’m finally starting to understand something.

Maybe to love is to be witnessed, to see someone in all that they are and all that they could be. To accept who they show themselves to be while they continue working toward who they’ve always wanted to become, to not fear the darkness they carry and honor the light inside.

Maybe it’s to notice the small things, the way they move through the world without thinking, the habits they’ve built to hold themselves together, and, more importantly, what those habits are quietly trying to contain.

The anxiety hidden in restless hands that never seem to settle. The need for control in something as simple as food. The tension a body refuses to release, even in sleep. It’s recognizing the unspoken, the fear masked by pride, the care that exists beneath hesitation, the parts of a person that desperately want to be understood but don’t quite know how to ask for it.

Maybe to love is to see both the person and the weight they carry, and to hold space for both without trying to rush either away.

It’s to be considerate, to grab their favorite snack as you pass it in the grocery store, to pick a flower from the side of the road because it reminded you of them, to make sure they’ve eaten after a long day, even if they forgot, to show care in ways that don’t need to be asked for to be understood.

It’s to be consistent, to show up when you say you will, to follow through, to become someone they can rely on, not just in moments of ease, but in moments where their mind tells them to expect disappointment. To be steady enough that their nervous system begins to trust what you say, rather than question if it will last.

It’s to offer clarity, to never leave them sitting in doubt, to not let silence become something they have to interpret or overanalyze. To communicate in a way that quiets uncertainty, that reassures rather than confuses, that reminds them they don’t have to search for meaning in your absence or second-guess where they stand.

And above all, maybe to love is to be brave. To dust off your heart and hold it out, trusting someone to be gentle with it. Choosing care even in moments where it would be easier to shut down, even when things are messy, even when you don’t fully understand what you’re feeling.

When I care for someone, it’s fast. It’s a free fall with no safety net waiting at the bottom. I show up fully, I care deeply, and I would snatch a star from the sky if I thought it would make them smile.

I used to think love was something to achieve, something to reach for and hold tightly.

But I don’t think that’s true anymore.

If you held out your hand and a butterfly happened to land in your palm, you’d admire it, sit in awe of something so small yet capable of flight. You wouldn’t close your fist around it just to keep it; you’d understand that part of its beauty lies in its ability to leave.

I think love is the butterfly.

They’re beautiful, fragile creatures, a contradiction of existing in strength and softness, something easily breakable yet still capable of surviving the harshness of the world.

You can’t force a butterfly to stay, but you can appreciate it while it’s there.

I opened my heart for the first time in years, even though everything in my past warned me against it, and regardless of how it ends, I’m grateful.

Grateful for the reminder that I’m still capable of feeling this way, that my care, my attention, my presence, those things are gifts.

Maybe one of the greatest things I have to offer is showing someone what it feels like to be truly cared for. Not to say I’m perfect or that I don’t make mistakes, but once I allow myself to care, I don’t do it halfway.

I used to think I had to protect that, to keep it locked away, to only give it to someone who could guarantee they wouldn’t break it.

But I’m starting to realize something else.

Some people have never experienced patience, or softness, or being treated with genuine care. They don’t know what it feels like for someone to be gentle with them.

Maybe love doesn’t always arrive at the right time. Maybe it isn’t always simple or uncomplicated. Maybe there are things left unsaid, paths that never quite align, or endings we never would have chosen.

But that doesn’t make the care any less real.

Because I can’t bring myself to regret the care I give.

So maybe love isn’t just defined by what’s returned to you.

Maybe it’s also defined by your willingness to give it anyway. Because at the end of it all, I didn’t lose anything.

If anything, I stopped believing that love had ever left me.

It was there all along, patiently waiting beneath the fear, beneath the grief, beneath every version of myself convinced she had to earn it.

Maybe that’s what love has been trying to teach me all along.

It was never about finding the right person to unlock my heart.

It was about becoming the kind of person willing to unlock it myself.

Signing off,