A Therapist’s Reflection on the Most Precious Human Experience In the therapy room, love shows up in countless forms. Not just romantic love, but the love we carry for friends, family, partners, the love we ache for, and the love we’re afraid to lose. And over time, one truth becomes very clear: love is never just one thing. It is layered, contradictory, and beautifully complex. When clients describe love, they often begin with its softness. The comfort of being understood. T

I often get asked how do I know if it’s love? Is it the comfort, the spark, the alignment of values, the ease of conversation? Is it when someone feels familiar, or when they make you feel more like yourself? We spend so much time trying to identify love that we forget love isn’t always a feeling we recognize at first sight. Sometimes, love doesn’t arrive as a rush. It arrives as a slow unfolding. It’s not always intensity that tells you it’s love. Sometimes, it’s peace. Some

Somewhere along the way, love became a screening process. We enter conversations armed with awareness, boundaries, and a silent checklist too quiet, too expressive, too attached, too distant. We scroll through people the way we scroll through feeds, constantly alert for a sign that says: red flag. It’s not that this vigilance comes from nowhere. Many of us have known heartbreak, manipulation, or the pain of giving too much. We’ve learned the hard way that not everyone deserve

No one prepares you for the grief that comes with pregnancy. The world paints it in warm tones glowing skin, sweet excitement, the miracle of life taking shape inside you. And some days feel exactly like that. But beneath the celebration lies a quieter truth that few speak about, because it feels almost forbidden: pregnancy can come with grief. Not just for a lifestyle that’s shifting, but for the version of yourself who is slowly slipping away. There is a moment sometimes ge

We often carry the quiet burden of wanting to be perfect parents calm in every moment, patient through every tantrum, wise enough to always know what to say. But children do not bloom under perfection. They grow in the presence of a parent whose nervous system feels steady, warm, and safe. A parent who may not always respond flawlessly, yet returns with softness, connection, and presence. Before a child can soothe themselves, they borrow regulation from us. Their small bodies

Lately, it feels like we talk about the “bare minimum” a lot. How we shouldn’t settle for it. How we deserve more than crumbs. And we do, we truly do. But somewhere between self-worth and self-protection, the idea of “bare minimum” has become a wall - one that often keeps us safe, but also keeps us distant. We’ve started confusing effortlessness with love, and grand gestures with care. So when someone texts good morning, shows up on time, or checks in about our day, we roll o

In the beginning, love feels effortless. You don’t have to try it just flows. You talk for hours, laugh without thinking, hold hands like the world is quieter when you do. But the real work of love begins after that. When life gets busy. When comfort becomes routine. When the parts of you that long for safety start showing up right beside the parts that fear being seen. Keeping love isn’t about holding on tightly. It’s about staying awake inside it. It’s about noticing the sm

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