The Velvet Type

My mind has been addled with thoughts of selfish love.

It started with a video, two strangers confessing their darkest truths with a raw honesty that got me thinking.

We love selfishly.

We bare our beating heart to another with the hope they’ll be gentle with it. We show up in the ways we know how, doing what we think is right, what we think is enough.

We love another the way we want to be loved.

This two-minute video made me think about how I love. 

I love through noticing. Through remembering the small inconveniences, I can easily fix. I’ll pick up the extra weight you’ve forgotten about. 

I see everything, big and small. 

If I can make some aspect of your life easier, I’ll do it. If I see something that reminds me of you, I’ll share it. 

On special occasions, I use my words. I’ll spend far too long picking out the perfect card, whether it’s humorous or meaningful. I’ll sit with a pen in my hand, pondering the words I don’t say often enough: how important you are to me, how much I appreciate your existence, how beautiful you are inside and out. 

You ran out of gum? I picked some up.

You’re feeling down? I’ll be a shoulder to lean on.

You want to be delusional and rant? I’ll match your energy. 

I become whatever the other needs. 

But then there’s an imbalance. 

Each person is different, each person shows up in the ways they were taught, in the ways they know how. 

So while I pass your favorite snack in the shopping aisle, thinking of you, maybe all you needed was for me to say it. 

It’s not to say that love is purely transactional. But there is a balance to be struck that can easily be toppled.

For you, maybe simply squeezing my hand as our fingers were intertwined was your confession.

Maybe it was playing my favorite song in the car.

Or pulling me closer in the middle of the night.

We get so lost in our own worlds, in what we think will make another feel loved, that we rarely stop to ask.

How do you express love?

What makes you feel cared for?

What makes you feel wanted, desired, appreciated? 

I think we become so consumed in the things we’ve always lacked, the ways we’ve always wished someone would show up for us.

Because of that, we forget.

We forget that what feels insignificant to us may mean everything to someone else. What feels insignificant to them may quietly mean the world to us. 

We don’t think about how our way of loving might not be fully communicated to the other. 

Maybe some of us have learned to stop asking what we want entirely. Maybe our needs were dismissed or unmet so often that we slowly abandoned that part of ourselves.

But then you’re faced with someone.

You have them in front of you; they make you want to crack open your heart and pour every ounce of love you have into them. 

But suddenly, you’re faced with a terrifying thought. 

What if the way I love isn’t what they need?

Instead of asking, you continue pouring and pouring, wondering why you feel empty when nothing seems to be returned in the way you understand.

Maybe they were returning it all along. Maybe your interpretation simply differed from their intention. 

I’m guilty of this. 

I think I’ve loved selfishly my entire life, which feels contradictory to admit. 

I show love through giving, through providing, and noticing. All I ever wanted in return was a simple acknowledgment. 

A simple “thank you.”

An embracing hug.

“I appreciate this…”

Maybe some sweet kisses to top it off, but truthfully, I never asked for more. 

The problem is, I never asked at all.

I love another selflessly, but the way I show my love is selfish. 

I’ve spent so much of my life carrying expectations, proving my worth through what I could provide, through how useful, thoughtful, accommodating, and emotionally available I could be. 

Receiving love became an action, an occasional reward handed out only for the extra-exceptional actions.

Maybe this is where it truly stems from.

We love through layers of history. 

Through absence and wounds, through everything we once needed but never received. 

We love in a way that’s unique to us, that’s buried and undiscovered. 

Maybe we try to love differently, to give less, to suppress it. But even then, it feels unnatural, like something alive beneath the skin, clawing to get out. 

For me, it’s physically painful to withhold my love and care. Not showing up authentically feels like a betrayal of self. 

Like I’m denying this core part of who I am to be more digestible for another.

When how I love isn’t reciprocated, or at least not shown clearly, everything starts to distort. 

Doubt creeps in and builds a home, fears line the walls, while confusion makes the bed for me to lie in. 

Lack of reaction becomes rejection, lack of touch becomes distance, no hello display of affection suddenly means I’m no longer desired. 

And maybe, in the grand scheme of things, that’s selfish too. 

Maybe they’re tired, maybe they didn’t even realize they brushed past your touch, maybe they forgot to kiss you because their mind was somewhere else entirely. 

But instead of asking, we create endless interpretations. We build entire emotional realities out of silence. 

The ability to hold two truths at once can completely alter the way we love. 

But you can’t do that without talking about it. 

Without asking for what you need.

Without saying what you want.

Without allowing another person the opportunity to understand you clearly, instead of expecting them to instinctively know. 

To ask for what exactly makes you feel loved, valued, appreciated, and desired.

Maybe, to love fully, we have to be open to relearning how to show it.

We’ll never fully know the intricacies of another unless we start asking the hard questions. 

So, I’ll start asking.

Signing Off,