Valentine’s Day

02/14/2026

I made this post on Valentine’s Day 2026, intending it for the collective—but a message came through that felt deeply personal, as if it were meant for me as much as anyone else. It reached many people, yet very few interacted with it. That silence spoke louder than engagement ever could.

When a message touches unhealed places, people often retreat rather than respond. That isn’t judgment—it’s awareness. I felt a wave of guarded, defensive energy around the post, and as an empath and medium, sensing that is simply part of how I move through the world. I feel the emotional and energetic undercurrents of those I read for, and of those who encounter my words. This is my life path—my purpose—to illuminate through lived experience, even when that illumination makes people uncomfortable.

In the twenty-four hours after posting, one person saved it. I reshared it. Still, no visible response. And unexpectedly, that quiet stirred an old ache—the same one I named in the caption itself. It echoed childhood Valentine’s Day moments in classrooms, when cards were exchanged and some were conspicuously absent. That familiar feeling of not being chosen resurfaced.

But, this time, I noticed something different.

The wound spoke—but it didn’t own me.

Maybe this moment wasn’t about rejection at all. Maybe it was preparation. An initiation. A reminder that I am stepping into a chapter where being chosen no longer comes from external validation.

As the Everly Brothers sang, “When will I be loved?”—a song that has followed me for years, one I remember from a film where Tom Cruise and Elizabeth Shue sang it as newlyweds. That question lingered long after the credits rolled.

My feels when I was younger. Haha Unhealed me with trauma.

I’ve never been one for this holiday—not because I’ve been single or bitter, but because love and I have had a long, complicated history. That history isn’t recent; it’s layered and ancient, shaped by experiences that molded my understanding of affection, belonging, and worth. Some wounds are old. Some feel carried across lifetimes.

Definitely my sentiments back in the day. Before my awakening.

This is karmic. Patterns carried forward, repeating until they are seen, felt, and healed. My karma has traveled with me across lifetimes, and I know now that this lifetime is asking me to finally tend to it—to heal it, to change it—not just for myself, but for future generations… and future lifetimes. I really hope I don’t sign up to do this again—but if I do, it will be different next time. 😆✨

From a young age, I rarely felt chosen in love.

Even within my family—where love absolutely existed—I felt the quiet sting of criticism about my body. If it wasn’t spoken outright, it showed up in pinched cheeks or a hand on my stomach, gestures framed as teasing but felt deeply. Even as a child, I registered it sharply. My body learned early that it was something to be commented on, corrected, or endured rather than simply cherished.

I found comfort in food. I was a deeply sensitive child—emotionally and spiritually—though I didn’t yet have language for that sensitivity. I absorbed energy easily, felt everything intensely, and food became a way to soothe, ground, and compensate for what I was carrying. At the time, it was survival. It was the only regulation tool I had.

Even now, I still battle with my weight. I am undoing years of learned coping, slowly reshaping my relationship with food and with my body. As I get older, the work feels more complex—hormones shift, my body changes, and what once worked no longer does in the same way. This isn’t a failure of discipline; it’s the ongoing work of healing patterns that formed long before I understood why they existed.

Classroom Valentine exchanges became an early mirror of that wound. I was the one who loved giving cards, who wanted everyone to feel included. My heart leaned naturally toward generosity and connection. And yet, alongside that openness, I felt the ache of being overlooked—of indifference, teasing, or quiet exclusion. Those moments didn’t stand alone. They intertwined with deeper wounds rooted in family dynamics and early abandonment, reinforcing a belief that love was something I offered freely but was rarely chosen to receive.

I know my parents and my family loved me. I don’t question that. Much of what they said and did came from cultural norms and societal conditioning they themselves inherited. I understand that now.

But, understanding does not erase impact.

Even when harm isn’t intentional, it still leaves a mark. The damage was done—not because I wasn’t loved, but because love was filtered through beliefs that didn’t know how to protect a child’s sense of worth. What was normalized still wounded me. What was meant lightly still landed deeply.

I can hold compassion for where they came from and honor the truth of what it cost me.

I was a tomboy, yes—but who doesn’t want to be wooed? Who doesn’t want to feel chosen, pursued, cherished, and given gifts? I was still a girl. I still am. Wanting romance, tenderness, and effort doesn’t make me less strong or independent. I’ve always carried an old-school heart when it comes to love. I believe in intention. In courtship. In actions that speak. I don’t see traditional gender roles as limitation—I see them as polarity. And polarity is what creates attraction, safety, and depth.

I was the tall one. The fat one. The tomboy. I wasn’t the girl boys chased. I watched from the sidelines as others were swept into romance. What stayed with me wasn’t just rejection—it was the belief of being unseen, unworthy, unchosen. Beneath that lived an even deeper ache: the soul memory of loving deeply without being met. Of unrequited love as a recurring lesson.

For a long time, I covered that longing with dismissal or humor—“flowers die anyway,” or “it’s a man-made holiday; you don’t need a day to show someone you love them.” And that second part is still true. I believe love should be shown every day. I believe random, unprompted acts of care and gift-giving are far more meaningful than anything tied to a calendar.

But, I can hold that truth and another one now.

I can admit that I still want to be wooed. I still want to receive flowers, gestures, intention. Wanting that doesn’t make me shallow or contradictory—it makes me honest. I’m no longer minimizing my desires to protect myself from disappointment. I’m no longer pretending I don’t want something just because I haven’t received it.

I’m allowing myself to name what I want—and what I deserve—with clarity, softness, and self-respect. These wounds shaped me—but they never defined me.

Over the past decade, I’ve done the real work. The uncomfortable, soul-deep work of healing love, loss, rejection, abandonment, and self-worth. I’ve learned how to love and accept myself in ways I was never taught. I now understand that real love begins within—and that I am enough, exactly as I am.

I will never beg anyone to love me or chase anyone again. I’m done with that. I’m more aligned with my feminine energy now. I’ve brought balance within myself. I’ve learned to put myself first, and in doing so, I’ve been able to see my old patterns clearly—where they were rooted in self-abandonment, overgiving, and the need to be chosen. Those habits no longer serve me.

Would I like to be someone’s Valentine, even feeling the way I do about the holiday? Yes. Of course. Because I never have been. I’ve never been chosen. I’ve never been someone’s cup of tea.

Maybe that will help heal my inner child—

the little girl who kept giving love freely,

who waited quietly to be chosen,

who learned early how to hope without guarantees.

She doesn’t need to be saved.

She just wants to be seen—

held in warmth instead of waiting,

and reminded—gently, finally—

that she was always worthy of love.

I’m always open to love in all its forms. Love doesn’t need a holiday to prove itself. For me, it lives in the quiet moments—the unprompted check-ins, the steady presence, the small, sincere gestures that arrive without a calendar reminder. Love that shows up on an ordinary Tuesday means more to me than love performed on cue.

This is the kind of love I believe in now—soft, steady, rooted. A love that doesn’t rush or demand. A love that grows roots first, then reaches for the sky. One that honors individuality, allows space for becoming, and endures beyond a single day.

This is the love I am ready to give.

And the love I am finally ready to receive. 🖤✨