by Samantha Dousharm
I spent my whole life believing love
was something you held onto. No one warned
me how much of yourself you could lose in the
holding.
I used to believe love meant attachment—that
the deeper I felt for someone, the more real it
was. That if I gave enough, waited long enough,
it would all make sense in the end.
But love doesn’t work that way. Love, the kind
that changes you, doesn’t always come
wrapped in a perfect ending. Sometimes, it’s the
slow realization that you have to let go of
everything you thought love was supposed to be
in order to find yourself again.
For most of my life, I thought love meant holding
on. I believed that if I cared deeply enough, gave
enough of myself, and stayed long enough, love
would eventually feel safe—solid and certain. I
poured myself into people like water into a
cracked glass, hoping if I filled it enough, it
wouldn’t spill over.
But looking back, I see that I wasn’t really giving
love—I was giving away pieces of myself, hoping
someone else would make me feel whole in
return.
When love didn’t come back to me the way I
wanted, I questioned my own worth rather than
whether I was pouring into the right places.
For almost six years, I built a life with someone I
thought I loved. Giuliano was steady, predictable
—the kind of love that felt like a well-worn path
through the woods. No surprises. No detours.
Just step after step, leading somewhere I wasn’t
sure I wanted to go.
We had routines, shared space, a history that felt
too heavy to walk away from. But somewhere
along the way, love became an obligation. I
convinced myself that love was in the staying, in
the way we intertwined our lives even when my
heart felt distant. I told myself I was happy
because leaving would mean unraveling
everything we had built.
But love that traps you isn’t love—it’s fear
disguised as loyalty. And for a long time, I didn’t
know the difference.
If my love for Giuliano was about stability, my
love for Malachi was about gravity.
It wasn’t something I chose—it was something I
felt, something that pulled at me in a way I
couldn’t explain.
With Giuliano, I built a life.
With Malachi, I felt alive.
He wasn’t mine, but that didn’t stop me from
writing him into my story anyway.
I thought love was about staying, but Malachi
taught me that love could also be about longing.
It could be about knowing someone deeply,
about feeling understood in a way that didn’t
need to be spoken.
With Malachi, I didn’t have to try. The connection
was just there—undeniable, in the way he looked
at me, in the way I felt lighter when he was near.
But love like that—the kind that makes you feel
everything at once—isn’t always the kind that
stays. And that was the lesson I never wanted to
learn.
I didn’t realize I was in love with Malachi at first. I
told myself it was just admiration, just friendship
—just a gravitational pull I didn’t need to
question.
But then he left.
He transferred to another store, and suddenly,
the absence of him felt unbearable. It wasn’t just
that I missed him; it was that the world felt
quieter, dimmer, like someone had turned down
the volume on my life.
That’s when I knew.
I was in love with him. And I had been for a long
time.
But love doesn’t always come with an open
door. Malachi had a life that didn’t have space
for me in the way I wanted. He had a relationship
—a reality I couldn’t ignore, no matter how much
I wanted to believe our connection was enough.
It was something—something unspoken,
something undeniable. But love like ours lived in
the spaces between what was possible and
what wasn’t.
Every moment with him felt like a battle between
what I felt and what I knew had to be true. He
told me he felt it too. And for a while, that was
enough to keep me holding on—grasping at
stolen moments, at unspoken truths, at the quiet
weight of something that neither of us could
name but both of us understood.
But love, no matter how mutual, can’t thrive in
the space between what is and what will never
be.
And that was the hardest part. Not wondering if
he felt it—knowing he did. Knowing that even
when love is real, it doesn’t always rewrite reality.
Knowing that even when hearts align,
circumstances don’t always follow.
He loved me in the way people love the sky—
distantly, beautifully, never enough to reach for.
So, I stayed.
Caught in the push and pull—too connected to
let go, too distant to ever truly have him.
Love had never felt so alive. And yet, it had never
felt so impossible.
For a long time, I thought love was about holding
on—about proving something, about waiting,
about showing up no matter how much it hurt. I
thought love meant effort, sacrifice, and
patience.
But Malachi, in all his impossible timing and
undeniable presence, made me question
everything I believed about love.
Because if love was just about effort, Giuliano
and I would have lasted.
If love was just about deep connection, Malachi
and I would have been inevitable.
But love isn’t just one thing. It isn’t just staying. It
isn’t just longing. It isn’t just finding someone
who makes your heart feel full.
Love is all of it—the leaving, the losing, the
aching, the growing.
And that’s what changed me.
For years, I shaped myself around the love I was
given. I made room for people, shrank myself
when necessary, stretched myself too thin trying
to be enough. I thought love was something I
had to earn—something I had to hold onto
tightly, or else I’d lose it.
But love that requires you to disappear isn’t love
at all.
And now?
Now, I am learning to love myself the way I
always wanted others to.
I no longer pour endlessly into people who won’t
pour back. Instead, I pour into me. Into the
things that make me feel whole, whether or not
anyone is watching.
I am learning to sit with my own silence without
searching for someone else’s voice to fill it. I am
learning to trust myself, to believe in my own
worth even when no one is there to validate it.
I no longer measure my value by who stays or
who chooses me. I choose myself.
Loving myself means showing up for myself in
small ways—eating when I’m hungry, resting
when I’m tired, speaking kindly to myself even
when my mind wants to spiral. It means
unlearning every voice that ever told me I was
only as good as the love I received.
I have started treating myself with the same
patience and care I used to reserve only for
others.
And I am still learning.
There are days when I slip back into old
patterns, when the ache of what was still tugs at
me. There are nights when I still feel the absence
of what I once wanted so badly.
But now, I don’t beg love to stay. I don’t chase
what isn’t meant for me.
Instead, I turn inward, toward the person who
has been there all along—the one who deserved
my love first.
I have spent years giving my love away, hoping
someone would finally give it back. Now, I am
learning to let it hold ME.
***
Samantha is a writer who explores love, loss, and the journey of self-discovery. With a raw and honest voice, they capture the complexities of human emotion, weaving personal experiences into universal truths. Their writing serves as both a reflection and a means of connection, resonating with those who have loved, lost, and learned to find themselves again.
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