What Is Love, Actually?
‘I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you.’
(And no, I don't mean the Christmas movie)
Lately, I've been reading a lot of novels set between the 1800s and 1950s. And I mean a lot. The kind with corsets, letters sealed with wax, and brooding men who suddenly become emotionally reckless after speaking to a woman for exactly three minutes.
Seriously. In most of these books, the man and woman exchange a brief, polite, painfully restrained conversation (usually about the weather, or books, or how "unladylike" she is, classic). Then, the very next day, he stumbles into her garden or drawing room frothing with emotion, declaring eternal love and dropping to one knee with a ring.
And she says yes.
Ninety percent of the time.
Why? Well, usually because he's rich, titled, and her family situation isn’t looking too promising. It's not love. Not really. It's more of a strategic alliance dressed up in poetic language. A compromise. A bargain dressed as destiny.
And what's even more chaotic? He doesn't actually love her either. But neither of them realizes that.
Because here’s the twist: they mistake desire for love.
Back then, you weren’t really allowed to be close; emotionally, physically, whatever, unless you were married. So that flutter in your chest when someone brushed your wrist? That was all you had. And when it was forbidden? Instant obsession. So they called it love, even if it wasn’t.
Anyway, beautiful setup, I know,
But here’s where I turn the spotlight: what is love, actually?
I’ve asked my parents this question a few times.
“What does it mean to love someone?”
And they always say the same thing:
“Well, you love us, don’t you?”
But that kind of love feels... automatic.
It’s not something I chose. I was born into it. It's a feeling that’s always just been there, so I don’t actually know what it feels like. I don’t know where it begins or ends, or how to describe it. It’s not that I don’t love them, it’s that I don’t know how I love them. You know?
So I tried asking the internet (of course).
Apparently, according to ChatGPT — love is "not seeing perfection, but embracing imperfection.”
Okay... sure. That's poetic.
But also: what does that actually mean?
When I think about love as I saw it growing up, I remember drama.
Yelling in kitchens. Tears in parking lots. Long texts. Confessions. Blocking and unblocking.
That’s not love entirely, obviously. But I do think that, for a while, I thought love was supposed to be messy and dramatic and exhausting. Like a TV show.
Then there was the whole idea of love as service. You do things for people. You take care of them. You sacrifice. And sure, that can be beautiful — as long as it’s not forced. Real love isn’t obligation. It’s wanting to show up. Wanting to make space. Not just doing it because you should.
And then there are the love languages, he five sacred pillars of Modern Teenage Love Education. Physical touch, quality time, acts of service, words of affirmation, and gifts.
Cute. Helpful. Pinterest-able.
But love still isn’t just about how you express it. It’s about how you feel it, deep down.
So I asked myself:
At first, I thought maybe I didn’t feel it at all. Maybe it was too constant, too quiet, like background music that’s always been playing. Nothing to notice. But that wasn’t true.
I started paying attention. Watching myself.
Little things happened, and I realized I do feel it.
Like when someone’s kind to my sibling.
When a friend instinctively gets me a drink without asking.
When someone laughs at something dumb I said and I just… soften.
Those are the moments when it sneaks in. Not all at once, but in tiny pieces. And I’ll think,
“Yes. Right now. I really do love you.”
Even if I never say it out loud.
Everyone feels it differently. Some people need grand gestures.
For me, it’s the small, consistent softness. Thoughtfulness. Gentleness toward the people I care about.
I don’t have a final definition, but I do believe a few things:
Love doesn’t always die when someone leaves.
You can still love someone who hurt you — even if you no longer want them close.
Before you can truly love someone else, you have to at least try to love yourself.
Not in a cliché, “self-care” way — but in a real, honest, “I am enough” kind of way.
Otherwise, you’ll be waiting for someone else to make you feel whole. And that never works.
So... What Is Love?
I still don’t know.
And maybe I never will.
But I don’t think love needs a clean definition to be real. It’s not math. It’s not logic.
It’s different for everyone. And that’s the point.
For some, love is silence.
For others, it’s chaos.
For me, maybe it’s just a feeling I get when someone makes the world feel a little softer. A little warmer.
That might not be the definition.
But it’s enough for now.
Cute ❤️