You Didn’t Do It Wrong. You Just Loved Big (A Letter to the Ones Who Keep Loving Anyway)

I was scrolling through the 'gram the other day when a video stopped me cold.
The person speaking was calm, certain, almost clinical in their delivery.
They said love is only real when it’s reciprocated 100 percent.

And… that made me feel sad.

I sat with it. Turned it over in my heart like a stone in my pocket.
And it still didn’t quite resonate.

Maybe (likely) they were speaking from personal grief, from the hard kind of love.
And maybe that’s their truth.
Maybe that’s their protection spell, born from pain.
But it’s not the whole truth.

Maybe they’d lived through the ache of one-sidedness and finally, finally, found the sweet kind.
I’m glad for them, if that’s true.
But love? Love isn’t so easily boxed.

It doesn’t arrive neatly wrapped, no matter what the movies say.
It’s messy. Complicated. Sometimes confusing.
But that doesn’t make it less real.

Love can be hard and still holy.
It can be sad and still true.

Love is the wildest truth wrapped in gentleness.
It’s the ache in your chest when someone else laughs,
the way your breath catches when they’re in pain.
It’s not always sweet. Sometimes it’s work, sometimes it’s weather.
But always, it’s wanting good for someone even when you get nothing back.

Love is letting go and holding on, all at once.
It’s saying “I’m here” without needing words.
It’s sitting in silence with someone who doesn’t know how to speak their hurt.
It’s staying up late to finish their dream when they’re too tired to keep going
(anyone want to help finish a book or two?).
It’s a choice, a feeling, a fire, and a forever, if you let it be.

Love doesn’t always come wrapped in symmetry.
It doesn’t always arrive in matching boxes, labeled “given” and “received.”
Sometimes it gives without return.
It pours out, even when the cup stays empty.
That doesn’t make it less real.

Sometimes love is heartbreakingly one-sided. Still love.
Sometimes it’s memory. Still love.
Sometimes it’s in the waiting, the hoping, the letting go. Still, somehow, love.

Because love…

It’s the mother who never stops checking the porch light.
It’s the friend who forgives before you say sorry.
It’s the “I made this for you” with no expectation you’ll like it.
It’s Calvin’s “Good job.”
(Did you read the book yet? You should — you’ll get it.)
It’s 80-40 forever.

Love can be mutual.
It should be, in the healthiest forms.
But it doesn’t disappear just because the other person doesn’t, or can’t, give it back.

Love changes shape.
It aches.
It learns boundaries.
But it remains.

And if you’ve loved like that — across galaxies, through grief, through silence —
you didn’t do it wrong.

You just loved big.

And honestly?
That’s the bravest thing there is.

A Journal Prompt (for those who’ve loved big):
When have you loved without guarantee?
What did it teach you about yourself, not just the other person?

Invitation to readers:
If this stirred something in you… you’re not alone.
Leave a comment, share this with someone who needs it,
or just sit with it quietly.

Love doesn’t always ask for action.
Sometimes it just asks to be witnessed.