I Want to Be Courted
I want to be courted.
There. I said it.
Not flirted with. Not tolerated. Not treated like a convenience or a guilt project. I want to be courted. The way someone waits in line just to sit beside you. The way someone studies your favorite coffee order, the tone of your voice when you’re tired, the silences that mean you’re not okay. I want to be loved with preparation. With intent. With follow-through.
But saying that feels embarrassing sometimes. Too much. Too soft. Too slow for the world I move in. I’m a provider. A fixer. A bringer of results. I’m the dependable one who figures things out and pays the bill and doesn’t ask for much except to not be disappointed one more time. So saying “I want to be courted” sounds like I’m asking to be rescued. But I’m not.
I’m asking to be wanted.
I’m not asking for flowers every morning or grand gestures. I’m asking for someone to see me and move closer. Not because I performed well that day, not because I was useful, not because I looked particularly composed, but because they simply wanted to.
That want is something I’ve rarely felt. Not just because people wanted something from me first, but because – if I’m being honest – there are times I don’t think they liked me at all. Not really. Not the way I hoped. Sometimes I wonder if their warmth, their interest, their attention only showed up because I handed them something first. Because I gave them comfort, or usefulness, or silence. Because I didn’t ask for anything back. And the moment I stopped giving? They disappeared. Their eyes shifted. Their tone changed. Their presence faded.
So yes. I want to be courted.
I want someone to think of me not as the solution to their problems or the strong one they lean on when their life is in shambles, but as a person they’re moved toward even when I have nothing in hand. Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m not performing.
There are times I wonder if this is too idealistic. That maybe, in this body, with this role in life, I’ve disqualified myself from softness. That maybe wanting to be pursued is childish. Maybe it’s unrealistic for someone like me – queer, tired, always busy, shouldering too much – to ask for something as tender as consistent affection. But if it’s so unrealistic, why does the ache feel this sharp? Why does it hum under everything I do?
I don’t want to chase anymore. Not because I’m bitter. But because I know what it does to me. It turns me into someone who overexplains, overgives, and overcompensates. It makes me smaller, hungrier, angrier. It makes me beg for breadcrumbs and then pretend I’m full.
I want to be courted because I am worthy of attention without exchange. Because my longing is not a flaw. Because my softness is not a sin. Because I’ve built my life around being dependable, but I have never been allowed to be the one that someone else fights for.
So no, I won’t clean this up.
I want to be courted.
And I won’t apologize for saying it out loud.
- I Want to Be Courted
- What Real Pursuit Looks Like (To Someone Who’s Never Felt It)
- The Shame of Wanting – When Tenderness Feels Like a Sin
- Growing Up Unpursued – The Cost of Being Useful
- Coping with the Void – Sex, Risk, and Overgiving
- What I Mistook for Being Pursued – And Why It Hurt More
- The Fear of Being Loved and the Urge to Flee
- What Real Pursuit Teaches Us About Love
- Who I’d Be If I Was Held
- The Inheritance That Told Me to Earn Everything, Even Love
- Being Courted Is Not Too Much to Ask
What Real Pursuit Looks Like (To Someone Who’s Never Felt It)
Pursuit, for me, doesn’t look like grand displays or loud declarations. It’s not roses on Valentine’s Day or Instagram captions dripping with couple-speak. It’s quieter than that. But deeper. Heavier. And far more difficult to fake.
It’s in the smallest movements that take real attention. The kind of attention that says, “I see you. I remember you. I want to be close to you, even when you’re not giving me anything in return.”
This is what real pursuit looks like, when you’ve spent your whole life being chosen for your usefulness:
1. When they want to see you – not just because they want something from you, but because your presence matters to them.
It’s not about needing advice, or asking for a favor, or checking something off a list. It’s when someone calls just to be near you. When they carve out space in their day not to consume you, but to witness you. It sounds so simple. But after years of being the person people come to only when they’re in trouble or need help or want something, this kind of unprompted presence feels like oxygen.
2. When they pay for things you could easily afford – but they do it anyway, without being asked.
I’ve always been the one who reaches for the bill. It’s reflex at this point. Not because I want control, but because I’ve been trained to protect people from feeling indebted to me. So when someone pays for me, even when they know I could afford it, even when it’s something small, it disarms me. It tells me I don’t have to buy my place in their life. That maybe, just maybe, I am allowed to receive.
3. When they remember the smallest details you shared in passing.
I’m used to repeating myself. I’m used to people forgetting my favorite things or glazing over when I talk about the things that make me come alive. So when someone recalls a passing comment from three weeks ago, or brings me something I once said I liked, or asks me about a dream I barely admitted out loud – that’s pursuit. That’s proof they were listening even when I didn’t think I mattered enough to be heard.
4. When they want to talk to you with intention – not because it’s expected, but because they’re genuinely drawn to your thoughts, your voice, your mind.
Not small talk. Not transactional check-ins. But conversations that open up the soul. The kind where they ask, “What’s been on your mind lately?” and they mean it. The kind where they remember your silence from earlier and circle back. It’s when you stop feeling like a task or an obligation, and you start feeling like a person they actually want to understand.
5. When they revere you – not worship, not idolize, but deeply see your work, your story, your logic, and hold it with respect.
I’ve been admired for my strength. I’ve been praised for my resilience. But pursuit isn’t admiration. It’s reverence. It’s when someone takes time to learn me – not just compliment me. When they don’t rush to agree, but instead want to understand where I’m coming from. When they tell me that what I create, what I say, how I think, changes something in them.
6. When they do more than the bare minimum – but even when they’re doing just the minimum, they still do it with care.
It’s easy to show up once. It’s easy to send a nice message once, plan a surprise once, hold space once. But pursuit is found in repetition. It’s in showing up when it’s inconvenient. It’s in keeping your word even when no one’s watching. And when someone does even the most basic thing – like checking in, replying on time, asking how I am – and they do it with real care, it shows. It cuts through the noise.
7. When they tell me what they want – and also what they don’t want – from me.
This sounds strange, but it’s one of the most intimate things someone can do. When they don’t just take what I offer out of politeness or passivity, but they communicate. When they say, “I don’t want this,” or “I do want more of that,” it tells me they’re not just consuming me. They’re relating to me. That honesty is love in motion.
8. When they send a voice message just to say good morning. Or surprise me with something that’s not expensive, but thoughtful.
Love doesn’t always need a price tag. But it does need intention. A short voice note. A random snack. A screenshot of something that reminded them of me. These are the tiny, deliberate acts that say, “You’re on my mind.” And when you’ve lived in a world where your presence only registers when you’re performing, those small signals hit like thunder.
9. When they support me – not because there’s something in it for them, but because they want me to succeed and grow.
They don’t just cheer me on when it’s convenient. They ask about my work. They listen to my creative ideas. They offer encouragement without needing to be asked. It’s support without surveillance. It’s belief without possession. It’s love that says, “I want to see you win,” not because it benefits them, but because my becoming matters to them.
The Shame of Wanting – When Tenderness Feels Like a Sin
There is a particular kind of shame that grows when you long for something you were never taught to expect. It doesn’t shout. It whispers. It doesn’t tell you to stop wanting. It tells you that wanting, in itself, makes you ungrateful, delusional, or weak.
That’s how it began for me.
Not with someone saying, “You don’t deserve love.” But with the slow, quiet conditioning that said, “Love is a reward. You get it after you prove yourself.”
As a child, I was praised when I achieved. Comforted when I behaved. Celebrated when I brought something home – awards, recognition, order. I wasn’t comforted when I was confused. I wasn’t seen when I was soft. I wasn’t encouraged to ask for help unless I was clearly drowning. Even then, I had to make it easy to carry me. Neatly explainable. Low maintenance. Worth the effort.
And slowly, I learned to associate tenderness with risk.
When you grow up in a culture that romanticizes sacrifice but shames sensitivity, you don’t ask for affection. You earn it. You become the responsible one. You become the achiever. You become the emotional adult in rooms full of people who should have known better. You become someone whose love language is control. Not because you don’t want to be loved, but because you are afraid that love will run away the moment you stop being useful.
That fear never fully leaves.
Even now, I catch myself hesitating before expressing affection. I pause before reaching out. I second-guess even the smallest longing. I tell myself, “If they really wanted to talk to you, they would. If they really loved you, you wouldn’t have to ask.” And when I do ask, when I let my want show, the guilt comes flooding in. Like I’ve broken some internal rule I didn’t even know I agreed to.
There’s a voice in my head that sounds like mine but speaks for every time I was told to toughen up. It says, “You’re already lucky. You’re already loved by your friends. You already have a roof, a plan, a dream. Why are you still craving more?”
And it’s that guilt – the one that tells you to be grateful and quiet – that makes the hunger feel shameful. That hunger for pursuit. For presence. For consistency. For small, everyday acts of love that are not earned but freely given.
I once heard a line that pierced something in me: “How can I crave love when I’ve got nothing to offer?”
It landed too hard because it was already mine. I’ve said it to myself in quieter ways. When I didn’t feel accomplished. When my bank account was low. When I wasn’t performing well. When I felt ordinary. I told myself I had no business longing for anything other than rest and responsibility.
But here’s the truth that shame keeps hiding: I am not meant to be love’s reward. I am not meant to be chosen after I’ve given everything away. Wanting to be loved for no reason at all is not a sin. It’s a need. A deeply human one.
It doesn’t make me weak. It doesn’t make me broken. It doesn’t make me a child.
It makes me someone who still believes that love should be offered freely, not measured against a list of accomplishments or sacrifices.
And if that makes me soft, then let me be soft.
If that makes me foolish, then I’ll be foolish.
But what I won’t be anymore is silent about the ache.
Because the shame of wanting only thrives in silence. It thrives in people like me—people who know how to survive but haven’t yet learned how to be held without condition.
I am still learning.
But I am not sorry.
Growing Up Unpursued – The Cost of Being Useful
I don’t think anyone ever sat me down and said, “You don’t get to be soft.” But they didn’t have to. It was there in the way people responded to my pain. In how quickly I was applauded when I picked myself up, and how uncomfortable they became when I didn’t bounce back fast enough. It was there in the eyes that lit up when I succeeded, but glazed over when I tried to explain what it cost me. It was in the way love showed up after I performed, but never during the unraveling.
I grew up learning that usefulness was the only kind of worth anyone would protect.
Not just in my family, but in the unspoken architecture of the world around me. I was the achiever. The hope. The one who would make it out and make something happen. And I did. I took on the role without hesitation. Because on some level, I believed that being dependable was how I would earn the love I wasn’t sure I’d ever receive otherwise. If I carried the weight, maybe I’d be carried in return. If I made it easier for everyone else, maybe someone would notice when I was the one struggling.
That notice rarely came. And when it did, it was often laced with expectation. I wasn’t nurtured as much as I was managed. People made space for my function, but not for my feelings. I was praised for how much I could hold, never asked about how heavy it had become.
And when I did start to break, the world around me didn’t know what to do. They told me to rest, but only if I could still be available. They offered support, but only when it was convenient. They called me strong, but only when I was silent about the pressure.
So I kept going. I kept delivering. I kept showing up. Because every time I didn’t, something in me would whisper that I was risking everything. That if I stopped being useful, I’d stop being loved. That if I let myself be the one who needed something, I’d be the one who got left behind.
People loved the version of me who was composed. Who gave without needing. Who offered insight, solutions, comfort, time. They didn’t love the version of me who needed clarity. Who asked for affection. Who crumbled.
And slowly, I internalized the math: the more you give, the more they stay. The less you need, the more they praise you. The quieter your ache, the louder their approval.
I carried that logic everywhere. Into friendships. Into relationships. Into work. Into moments that should have been about joy or connection but became moments of calculation. How much of myself can I give before I become a burden? How much space can I take up before someone silently starts checking out?
Being unpursued wasn’t always about being rejected. It was about never being the one they moved toward first. Never being the one who was checked in on without having to fall apart. Never being the one who people fought for, not because I asked them to, but because they wanted to.
There is a very specific ache that comes from being everyone’s lifeline and no one’s priority.
It makes you cynical about kindness. Suspicious of support. It trains you to say “I’m okay” with a smile you practiced too many times in mirrors and bathrooms and text messages. It convinces you that if anyone gets too close, they’ll only stay as long as you’re useful.
But the real cost of being useful isn’t just the exhaustion. It’s the erasure. You start to forget what it feels like to be wanted without having to first justify your existence. You start to doubt whether that kind of love was ever meant for you at all.
And the worst part? People see you as high-functioning. As resilient. As inspiring. But you know the truth. You know the quiet bargain you made. You know that all your strength was born from being unchosen.
Coping with the Void – Sex, Risk, and Overgiving
There’s a moment, after you’ve performed usefulness long enough, when the mask slips – not in front of others, but in front of yourself. You start to feel it. That hollow ache just beneath the surface. That dull panic that maybe no one actually knows you. That even the people who seem to care wouldn’t choose you if you stopped giving, stopped solving, stopped smiling.
That’s when the void opens.
It doesn’t shout. It whispers. And when it whispers loud enough, you start doing things just to feel something different than what you’ve been feeling your entire life. You start chasing closeness anywhere it shows up, even if it’s brief, even if it’s manipulative, even if it hurts. You tell yourself you’re in control. You tell yourself it’s just for fun. But underneath it all is that soft, desperate hope that this time, maybe someone will stay.
I’ve had sex with people I barely liked because I needed to believe someone wanted me. I’ve ignored red flags I could clearly name because I didn’t want to go back to the silence. I’ve given so much, so fast, to people who never earned my trust, because I thought if I poured enough into them, they’d finally turn around and pour something back.
It never worked. And I knew it wouldn’t. But I kept doing it anyway.
There’s a certain violence in starvation. It makes you frantic. It makes you reckless. And when you’re starving for affection, you don’t always make choices based on truth. You make choices based on proximity. You settle for people who text back fast, even if they don’t really care. You convince yourself that crumbs are enough because they’re better than nothing. You bend, you perform, you please. Not because you’re weak, but because you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be fed.
I don’t say this to shame myself. I say this to be honest. Because nobody ever talks about what it looks like when longing curdles into desperation. When love stops being a desire and starts becoming a transaction. You give your time. Your body. Your attention. Your silence. And in return, you get momentary closeness. A brief rush of being wanted. A short-lived lie that you were chosen.
But when it ends, when they leave, when they ghost, when they change their tone the next day, the shame settles in deeper than before. Not just because of what you did. But because of what you hoped it would mean.
There were nights I walked home from someone’s house and couldn’t look at myself. Not because of what happened, but because I knew I was the only one who thought it was real. I knew I wasn’t pursued. I was used. Or worse, tolerated. And even then, I stayed.
That’s what the void does. It tells you this is the best it gets. It tells you real pursuit is for other people. People who are softer. People who have less baggage. People who didn’t build themselves from nothing and bleed for everyone around them. The void tells you that people like you don’t get loved. They get needed. They get borrowed. They get left.
And so I coped the only way I knew how. I overgave. I overcompensated. I tried to outperform my abandonment. I tried to earn care through sacrifice. I tried to work my way into affection the same way I worked my way into survival.
It left me more empty than I started.
And that emptiness, that silence afterward, that’s what finally forced me to ask a harder question.
What would it look like to be chosen, not because I offered something, but simply because I exist?
What I Mistook for Being Pursued – And Why It Hurt More
There were moments I thought I was finally being pursued.
Someone reached out first. Someone said they missed me. Someone called me beautiful. Someone stayed the night and made it feel like morning might matter too. And for a second, I believed it. I let myself believe it. I softened. I gave them more of me. I started imagining things – small, quiet futures where I didn’t have to chase anymore. Where someone had chosen me.
But what I thought was pursuit was often something else entirely.
It was loneliness dressed up as interest. It was routine disguised as effort. It was flattery without consistency. They liked how I listened. They liked how I made them feel. They liked that I always had something thoughtful to say, or that I understood them faster than they understood themselves. But they didn’t pursue me. They pursued what I gave them. They wanted the way I held space. Not the person who learned how to hold it.
And when I started needing something back – affection, clarity, time – the tone shifted. The warmth cooled. The distance crept in. And there I was again, wondering how I got it wrong.
False pursuit hurts in a very specific way. It’s not like rejection. It’s not someone saying no. It’s someone almost loving you. It’s someone pulling you close just enough to feel safe, but never stepping forward when you reach out. It’s the illusion of being chosen without the weight of actual commitment. It’s the breadcrumb trail that keeps you walking until you realize they never intended to meet you at the end.
The worst part is, I used to make excuses for them. I’d say they were just busy. That they had their own wounds. That maybe I was expecting too much. I’d tell myself that slow love is still love. That some people just aren’t expressive. That maybe this is what it means to be pursued as an adult – you lower your standards. You accept less. You wait and you wait and you wait.
But it wasn’t slow love. It was hesitation. It was detachment. It was a person who liked the way I showed up, but had no interest in staying when I stopped performing.
And that realization burned.
Because it made me question everything. Was I ever truly wanted? Or was I just convenient? Was I ever seen? Or was I just easy to be around? Was that person ever in love with me? Or were they just in love with how I made them feel about themselves?
These aren’t just bitter questions. They’re necessary ones. They come from finally learning that pursuit is not the same as proximity. That someone liking you is not the same as someone choosing you. That being paid attention to doesn’t always mean you’re being cared for.
I mistook attention for intimacy. I mistook communication for consistency. I mistook presence for pursuit.
And it hurt more than silence ever did.
Because silence leaves room for clarity. But almost-love confuses you. It teaches you to doubt your own needs. It teaches you to feel guilty for asking. It teaches you that maybe you’re asking for too much again.
But I wasn’t.
I was asking for someone to show up the way I do. And they couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.
And I have to be brave enough now to stop mistaking almost for love.
The Fear of Being Loved and the Urge to Flee
Here’s the part I don’t like admitting.
Even when love does come close – even when someone finally shows care, offers consistency, tells me I matter – some part of me wants to run. Or worse, wants to break it before it can break me.
I tell myself I want to be loved. I’ve said it out loud. I’ve written it. I’ve prayed for it. But when someone starts offering it freely, without me having to earn it, I don’t know what to do with it. I question their motives. I overthink every kind word. I wait for the shift. I brace for the withdrawal before it happens. And sometimes, I cause it.
Because being loved without performance feels like standing in a room with no walls. There’s nothing to lean against. No metric to measure. No utility to hide behind. Just me. Bare. Quiet. Ordinary. And when you’ve spent most of your life being loved because of what you offer, being loved in spite of your messiness feels terrifying.
Sometimes I test them. Not on purpose. But I’ll go quiet just to see if they notice. I’ll hold back just to see if they reach. I’ll ask for something small just to watch how they respond. I tell myself it’s about compatibility, about gauging whether they’re real. But if I’m honest, it’s fear disguised as strategy.
Sometimes I sabotage the whole thing. I flirt with other people. I talk about exes more than I should. I create distance where there was none. Not because I want to lose them, but because I want to be in control of the leaving. If it’s going to fall apart, let it fall because I cracked it first. Let it end before I start believing it could last.
There are even darker moments. Moments when I think, What if I cheat? What if I self-destruct? What if I throw this away, just to prove to myself that I was never built for love in the first place?
It’s not about disrespect. It’s not about boredom. It’s about disbelief. I can’t trust what I’ve never known. And I’ve never known love that stays without demanding something back. I’ve never known pursuit that doesn’t ask me to shrink. I’ve never known care that doesn’t come with a clock, a test, a condition.
So when it shows up, part of me doesn’t believe it’s real. And the other part tries to destroy it, just to stop waiting for the drop.
The urge to flee isn’t loud. It’s subtle. It tells me to take longer to reply. It tells me to stop showing so much excitement. It tells me to dull my joy, to make it casual, to keep a Plan B. It tells me that letting someone in too deep means I’ll lose parts of myself I’ll never get back.
And all of this (the testing, the flinching, the sabotage) isn’t because I’m afraid of love itself. It’s because I’m afraid that if someone sees me fully, they’ll change their mind. That they’ll realize I’m not that strong. That I’m high-maintenance. That I’m messy, needy, sharp in the wrong ways. That I was better when I was a fantasy.
So I keep the fantasy alive. I stay slightly unavailable. Slightly hard to reach. Slightly skeptical. I never let myself rest in the belief that I’m loved. Because resting means trusting. And trusting means risk.
But here’s the thing. I don’t want to live like this anymore.
I don’t want to keep treating affection like a threat. I don’t want to keep breaking things before they have a chance to become something beautiful. I don’t want to keep pretending I’m unbothered, when what I really am is scared.
I want to learn how to be loved without fleeing. I want to sit still when someone says they care. I want to stop looking for the catch and start believing the connection. I want to stop thinking of love as something I’ll ruin, and start seeing it as something I’m allowed to receive.
Because if love finally reaches me, I don’t want to be the reason it leaves.
What Real Pursuit Teaches Us About Love
Real pursuit taught me that love is not a performance, it’s a pattern.
It’s not who makes the loudest declarations. It’s who shows up when there’s nothing to gain. It’s who listens without waiting for their turn to speak. It’s who pays attention when no one’s watching. It’s who stays when you’re not easy to love that day.
Real pursuit taught me that love is not passive. It doesn’t hover in the background, waiting to be noticed. It makes a move. Not always with drama or fireworks. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes it’s subtle. But it moves. It chooses. It says, “I want you here,” and backs that up with rhythm.
It doesn’t make you guess. It doesn’t make you audition. It doesn’t punish you for having needs. It doesn’t pull away just to see if you’ll chase. It doesn’t flirt with your insecurities. It doesn’t trade vulnerability for control.
And maybe the most important thing real pursuit taught me – if I can even say I’ve tasted it in full – is that love is attention over time. It is care that repeats itself. It is presence that doesn’t need a crisis to activate. It is someone taking the time to learn you, not just get close to you.
The people who almost loved me didn’t do that.
They complimented. They admired. They used my empathy as a mirror. They liked that I was insightful, reflective, articulate. But they didn’t study me. They didn’t hold the same detail I offered them. They didn’t hold me.
Because real pursuit takes work. Not just the first move. Not just the first message. Not just the romantic gestures. But the uncomfortable stuff. The tension. The honesty. The showing up even when it’s inconvenient or unglamorous. The choosing, again and again, without being coaxed into it.
And I’ll be honest, I didn’t know how to name that difference until I lived through the absence of it.
I used to think pursuit meant attention. Now I know attention without consistency is just noise. I used to think love was about chemistry. Now I know chemistry without care is just chaos. I used to think the intensity of longing made something real. But longing, alone, doesn’t build anything.
What builds something is effort with direction. Not sprinting. Steady movement. Not overcompensating. Just showing up and meaning it.
And now that I’ve learned that, I can’t unsee it.
I can’t unsee the patterns that failed me. I can’t unsee the way I once settled for enthusiasm with no follow-through. I can’t unsee the way I used to romanticize the chase, just because I was used to running after people who didn’t know how to stay.
Now I crave something different.
Not urgency. Not unpredictability. But peace. Respect. Intent. Love that doesn’t just feel good in the moment, but safe across time.
Because real pursuit isn’t about winning someone. It’s about knowing them and still choosing to come closer.
And I deserve that kind of love. Even if I’ve never fully known it yet.
Who I’d Be If I Was Held
If I was held – not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually, and steadily – I think I’d start becoming someone I’ve never really had the space to be.
I’d slow down. Not because I’m lazy, but because I’d finally feel safe enough to move without panic. I wouldn’t rush my mornings. I wouldn’t chase silence like a prize. I wouldn’t wake up feeling like I was already behind, already failing, already needing to prove I’m worth keeping around.
If I was held, I’d eat differently. I’d move my body with care, not punishment. I’d cook for myself not because I had to, but because I wanted to feel nourished. I’d take vitamins because I believe in my future. I’d drink water because I’d start to believe I’ll still be here in ten years, and I want to be well when I arrive.
I’d still take care of my family, but the way a garden is watered. Not the way a dam bursts. Not because I’m the only one holding the roof up, but because I’m full enough to give without emptying. I’d love them without the quiet resentment that sometimes simmers under the weight. I’d be maternal without losing my own inner child in the process.
I think I’d start writing more. Not just as a way to cope, but as a way to live. I’d write because I have energy left over. I’d write because there’s joy in my chest, not just noise. I’d make videos again. Not for survival. Not for clout. But for connection. For beauty. For honesty.
If I was held, I wouldn’t need to romanticize my loneliness anymore. I wouldn’t have to tell myself I’m better off alone just to survive the ache. I could still be independent, but not as armor. Not as proof that I’m strong enough. I already know I’m strong enough. I don’t need to keep performing that strength to be allowed to rest.
And in that rest, I think I’d get gentler. Not weaker. Just softer around the edges. Less suspicious. Less braced for the next exit. I’d start trusting joy when it shows up. I’d start saying yes without thinking five steps ahead. I’d laugh with my whole face. I’d cry without apologizing for it. I’d let myself be loved out loud, not just in theory.
Because if someone held me like that, with presence, with consistency, with care that doesn’t ask for compensation, I think I’d finally stop waiting to be rescued. I’d stop waiting to be tested. I’d stop waiting to be left.
And maybe, for the first time, I’d believe that love isn’t something I have to keep chasing. Maybe I’d believe that it’s something I can build. Something I can receive. Something I can live inside of, not in spite of who I am, but because of it.
That’s who I’d be.
Not smaller. Not sweeter. Not easier.
Just free.
The Inheritance That Told Me to Earn Everything, Even Love
No one gave me a manual for how to be loved. But I was given instructions. Loud ones. Quiet ones. Unspoken ones. Instructions for how to be good. How to be useful. How to be the kind of person people could be proud of, depend on, brag about when convenient, but rarely sit beside when I was unraveling.
I was taught how to show up. How to suppress. How to keep moving. How to bring honor to rooms that would not have made space for me if I wasn’t always delivering something first.
That was the inheritance. Not land. Not freedom. Not a map to softness. But a code of survival built around performance. Be strong. Be generous. Be grateful. Be quiet about your needs. Be twice as good to get half as much. Be the one who carries, even if you’re collapsing. Be the one who understands, even if no one understands you. Be the one who adjusts, adapts, absorbs, and never asks to be held while you do it.
And underneath all that pressure was a quieter message. Love is not given. It is exchanged.
You give respect. You might receive affection. You give obedience. You might be allowed space. You give achievement. You might be celebrated. But love, real and steady and vulnerable love, is not something you ask for. It is something you prove you deserve.
So I spent years trying to deserve it. By being excellent. By being kind. By being low-maintenance, high-functioning, emotionally available, financially dependable, spiritually self-managing. I gave comfort to people who never once asked how I slept. I offered care to people who saw me as an upgrade, not a partner. I stayed steady so no one would ever call me a burden.
And the whole time, I wondered why I felt so alone.
But when you’re raised in systems that equate obedience with value, affection feels conditional even when it’s real. When you’re told to earn everything, even love, you stop trusting anything that’s offered freely. You pull back when someone reaches out. You overanalyze gifts. You brace for the guilt trip that might follow. You look for the strings.
And when you don’t find them, part of you panics anyway.
Because the love you were taught to imagine always had a cost. And if there’s no cost, maybe it isn’t love. Maybe it’s a trick. Maybe it’s a countdown.
I didn’t inherit safety. I didn’t inherit softness. I inherited a system. And I made a home out of it because there wasn’t a blueprint for anything else. I was too busy surviving to question whether any of it made sense.
But now I do.
Now I see how many people walk around carrying the same inheritance. People who are exhausted from proving. People who stay in one-sided relationships because being chosen a little feels better than not being chosen at all. People who think rest is something they have to buy back with labor. People who give and give and give, and convince themselves it’s love because it’s all they’ve ever known.
But it’s not love. It’s survival.
And I want more than that now.
I want to unlearn the math. I want to stop measuring my worth by how much I offer. I want to believe that I am still lovable when I’m not useful. Still worthy when I’m tired. Still enough when I’m simply here.
I want to pass down something else.
Not just to others. To myself.
A new kind of inheritance. One built on care that doesn’t have to be earned. One that says you’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to need. You’re allowed to want.
One that teaches me, day by day, that love is not a prize.
It’s a place.
Being Courted Is Not Too Much to Ask
I still want to be courted.
Not as a fantasy. Not as a fix. Not as a reward for healing. I want to be courted as I am now. Not when I’m better. Not when I’m more stable. Not when I’ve finally learned how to stop apologizing for wanting it.
I want someone to walk toward me. Not for what I do, not for what I offer, not for how easy I make their life feel. I want someone to walk toward me just because they want to be near me. Just because something in them says, stay.
I want someone to study me the way I’ve studied others. To notice what I don’t say. To ask questions not to fix, but to know. I want to be seen in the quiet. In the ordinary. In the unshiny hours of the day.
I want pursuit. Real pursuit. Not gestures made once and forgotten. Not messages sent to keep the door open. I want movement that is consistent. I want effort that does not wait for me to break first. I want love that does not show up only after I’ve collapsed.
I want the kind of love that is offered, not extracted.
And maybe that sounds like too much in a world that moves fast and loves casually. Maybe to some people, it sounds demanding. Or dramatic. Or idealistic. But to me, it sounds like truth. It sounds like dignity. It sounds like the kind of care I have poured into others without ever asking for it back.
And now, I am asking.
I am asking to be wanted. Not managed. Not admired from a distance. Not praised for how much I can carry. I am asking to be held, not because I’m hurting, but because I exist.
I am asking to be loved without needing to hand over a receipt. Without proving that I’ve suffered enough to finally deserve it.
I am asking for pursuit that feels like presence. That feels like, “You don’t have to convince me. I already see you.”
Because I’ve chased enough. I’ve earned enough. I’ve performed enough.
Now, I want to rest in the knowing that someone chose me. Freely. Fully. Repeatedly.
And I don’t believe that’s asking for too much anymore.
I believe that’s asking for what’s right.
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