To overflowing containers.

 

My whole life up until this point,

I’ve always been searching for love.

I used to think—

romanticize—

that love was something missing from me.

That I was incomplete.

And the world held the answer.

Somewhere out there

was a person

who would find me,

and fill the space.

 

But over the past few years—

and more recently, more profoundly—

that perspective has shifted.

 

Love isn’t missing.

It’s everywhere.

 

I love my family.

I love my friends.

I love writing.

I love gaming.

I love when people ask good questions—

and when they give honest, messy, beautiful answers.

 

I love curiosity.

The kind that digs beneath the surface and asks

Why do you do what you do?

Who are you when no one is watching?

 

And yes,

when the time comes,

I will love my partner.

Not because I’m empty—

but because I’m already full.

 

I’ve realized—

I am no longer searching for love

in someone else.

Because I am overflowing with it.

It’s brimming from the top,

spilling past the edges of my container.

It runs down my sides,

touching everything I do,

everyone I meet.

 

Now I’m looking for someone

who can hold that overflow.

Someone whose container is big enough—

not perfect, but patched.

No bottomless holes, no leaking cracks.

Just someone who’s done the work,

stitched their own soul back together enough

to hold what I have to give.

Which is a lot.

 

And maybe—

just maybe—

my love can overflow his container too.

 

⸻

 

On a side note—

I’ve been going on more dates lately.

And the dates themselves have been excellent.

But still,

I keep getting the same messages:

I had a great time with you,

but I’m not in the right place for anything serious.

Or

I haven’t really been feeling the love emotion.

 

And yeah—

it stings.

It disappoints me.

It hurts.

I’m not going to lie about that.

 

But the hurt is short-lived.

And I’ve learned to give myself a little pat on the back—

because these days,

I get back up faster.

I don’t shield my heart.

I don’t go cold.

I stay open,

even when it hurts.

 

And I think a big part of that

is the support behind me.

The quiet anchors in my life.

Family.

Friends.

The structure of work.

The safety of home.

 

These invisible hands—

they lift me up off the floor.

Every time.

So I never really stay on the ground for long.

 

Because isn’t that what love is about?

 

It’s about choosing to open

again and again,

even when it would be easier to close.

It’s about loving fully,

knowing the risk.

It’s about falling,

but learning the art of getting up—

softly,

bravely,

with both fists full of love anyway.

 

And honestly,

I wouldn’t want it any other way.