“I used to think love was measured by how much I was willing to carry. Now I’m learning to ask a different question: Does this love also know how to carry me?”

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I think I’ve spent a lot of my life trying to earn love.

Not intentionally. Not consciously.

But in the little ways.

By being useful.

By being understanding.

By being patient.

By trying harder.

By fixing.

By staying.

By proving.

And if I’m really honest, this isn’t just about romantic love.

It’s shown up in my platonic relationships, my familial relationships, and my romantic ones too.

I’ve found myself believing that if I could just be enough for people, help enough, love enough, sacrifice enough, show up enough, then I’d finally feel secure in my place in their lives.

As if belonging is something I have to continuously earn.

I used to think:

If I loved people well enough, they’d feel safe enough to stay.

What I’m learning:

Love can’t be sustained by one person constantly proving their worth.

And lately, I’m tired.

The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix.

The kind of tired that comes from carrying relationships like projects.

From constantly asking yourself:

What else can I do?

How can I make this better?

How can I show this person that I’m worth choosing?

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I don’t think exhaustion always arrives in dramatic ways.

Sometimes it looks like being the one who sends the check-in text because you don’t know if anyone would reach out if you didn’t.

Sometimes it looks like replaying conversations in your head, wondering if you said the wrong thing or asked for too much.

Sometimes it looks like feeling hopeful after a really good day, only to find yourself adjusting to another difficult truth the next.

Sometimes it looks like carrying the emotional labor because you’re afraid of what might happen if you stop.

Sometimes it looks like trying to anticipate everyone’s needs while quietly neglecting your own.

Sometimes it looks like constantly checking the temperature of a relationship because you’re trying to figure out if you’re still wanted there.

I’ve lived all of those versions.

I’ve been the person who stayed a little longer, tried a little harder, gave a little more because I believed that if I just loved well enough, things would finally feel secure.

I’ve also been the person who looked around and realized I was exhausted from trying to hold together something that was never meant to be carried by one person alone.

I used to think:

The more effort I put in, the more secure the relationship would become.

What I’m learning:

More effort doesn’t always create more security. Sometimes it just creates more exhaustion.

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I know relationships take work. They should.

Connection isn’t maintained by accident. Intimacy requires effort. Long-term love asks things of us. It asks for accountability, repair, honesty, and sometimes uncomfortable change.

I’ve seen the beauty in that.

Heck, I’ve lived it.

I’ve experienced hard conversations that created more intimacy. I’ve experienced relationships that became deeper because two people were willing to be honest and do the work.

I’ve also experienced the whiplash of progress and regression existing at the same time.

I’ve experienced feeling like things were getting better only to realize I needed to adjust to another truth.

I’ve experienced opening myself back up to connection only to retreat inward because something shifted again.

I’ve experienced the hope that comes from closeness and the grief that comes from realizing that closeness doesn’t always mean certainty.

And if I’m honest, that’s been hard on my nervous system.

Because every time I feel like I’m finding my footing, something changes.

Another realization.

Another truth.

Another adjustment.

And none of those things are inherently bad. Growth requires honesty. Relationships evolve. People learn things about themselves and each other all the time.

But it comes at a cost.

The cost of staying open.

The cost of hoping.

The cost of continuously recalibrating your expectations.

The cost of loving people while also living in uncertainty.

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I’ve been told that I tend to turn conversations deep, that I somehow always end up talking about feelings, relationships, and the things underneath the surface.

I’ve never hated that about myself.

In fact, I love that I’m someone people can have those conversations with.

I love depth.

I love understanding people.

I love making sense of the things that often go unsaid.

But lately, I’ve been wondering if some of that depth is also me trying to create safety.

Trying to understand things enough that I don’t have to feel the uncertainty of them.

Trying to process things enough that I don’t have to sit in the discomfort of not knowing.

Trying to talk my way into security.

I don’t know if that’s entirely true, but I think there’s something there.

Because when relationships feel uncertain, I don’t usually pull away.

I lean in.

I ask questions.

I seek understanding.

I try to repair.

I try to connect.

And sometimes that’s beautiful.

And sometimes it’s exhausting.

I used to think:

If I could understand a relationship deeply enough, I could protect it.

What I’m learning:

Understanding doesn’t eliminate uncertainty. Sometimes love asks us to sit with what we don’t know.

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I don’t think I learned to earn love for no reason.

I think, at different points in my life, it protected me.

Being useful made me feel needed.

Being understanding helped me keep connection.

Being dependable gave me a sense of belonging.

Trying harder made me feel like I had some control over whether people stayed.

So I have compassion for this version of me.

He was just trying to love and be loved with the tools he had.

I just don’t think those tools fit the life I’m trying to build anymore.

Part of what makes this realization so difficult is that it asks me to put down something that has worked for me for a very long time.

If proving, trying, and over-functioning are no longer the way I create safety in relationships, then I have to learn an entirely different way of loving.

And honestly?

That’s scary.

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For a long time, I thought this was what love was supposed to look like.

I thought love meant staying.

Trying harder.

Being patient.

Understanding people over and over again.

Proving your commitment through effort.

I thought if a relationship mattered enough, you fought for it. You dug in. You had the hard conversations. You chose each other repeatedly.

And to be fair, I still believe some of that.

I’ve always been someone willing to do the work.

To have the hard conversations.

To stay at the table.

To dig deeper.

I don’t think that’s something I want to lose about myself.

I think it’s one of the ways I love people.

But I’m learning that being willing to do the work and being responsible for all of it are two very different things.

I still believe love is a choice.

I still believe relationships require work.

I still believe there are seasons where we carry each other.

But what I’m learning is that love can’t only be effort.

It can’t only be proving.

It can’t only be one person continuously stretching themselves to hold everything together.

Because eventually, even beautiful things become heavy when you’re carrying them alone.

What I’m learning is that healthy love doesn’t just ask things from us—it also gives something back.

Safety.

Rest.

Reciprocity.

The freedom to be fully yourself without constantly wondering if you’re enough.

I think I used to believe that if I just loved people well enough, I’d eventually feel secure.

Now I’m wondering if security was never something I was supposed to earn in the first place.

Maybe it was something I was supposed to experience.

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Because I realized something recently:

I always seem to find myself trying to prove my value.

I can trace that pattern through so many parts of my life.

Waiting for people to see me.

Waiting for people to choose me.

Waiting for people to recognize what I bring to the table.

Working overtime to earn a place that maybe should’ve never required so much work to begin with.

I don’t want to do that anymore.

I don’t want relationships that feel like auditions.

I don’t want to constantly wonder if I’m doing enough to be appreciated, loved, or valued.

I don’t want to keep carrying connection on my back until I’m exhausted.

I still believe in effort.

I just don’t want effort to be the only evidence of love anymore.

I want relationships where effort exists, but so does rest.

Where repair is mutual.

Where love doesn’t require me to abandon myself.

Where I don’t have to convince people that I matter.

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When I say I want love to feel like rest, I don’t mean easy.

I don’t mean conflict-free.

I don’t mean perfect.

I mean I want relationships where I don’t have to constantly monitor whether I’m still wanted.

I want relationships where honesty doesn’t feel like a threat to my belonging.

I want relationships where I can put down my armor, stop performing, and trust that I don’t have to earn my place there.

I don’t necessarily want less depth in my relationships.

I just want depth that doesn’t require me to constantly earn my safety within them.

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So what do I want my love to look like?

I want love that feels safe enough to rest in.

I want relationships where effort is shared and repair isn’t carried by one person.

I want to be able to tell the truth about my needs without feeling like I’m asking for too much.

I want to love people deeply without abandoning myself in the process.

I want relationships that make room for uncertainty without making me question my worth.

And maybe more importantly, I know who I want to become.

I don’t know exactly what this next version of me looks like yet.

I just know he’s a little less responsible for everyone else’s feelings.

He rests more.

He trusts more.

He asks for what he needs.

He lets people meet him where he is.

And most importantly, he no longer believes he has to earn a place in the hearts of the people who love him.

I’m not there yet.

I’m still learning.

I’m still unlearning.

But maybe this season of my life isn’t teaching me how to love harder.

Maybe it’s teaching me how to rest.

How to receive.

How to let love meet me halfway.

And how to believe that I don’t have to earn what is freely given.

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So maybe that’s the invitation here—not just for me, but for you too.

Where in your life have you confused proving with loving?

Where have you mistaken exhaustion for commitment?

Where are you carrying relationships that were never yours to carry alone?

If you stopped trying to earn your place in the people you love, would you still believe you deserve to be there?

What kind of love would remain?

What kind of person would you become?

Maybe, for me, the answer is this:

Someone who finally believes they don’t have to earn love to deserve it.