Love, as a word, is meaningless. Love is action. It’s what you do, not what you say.
How many times has someone said they loved you and you knew their words were as empty as a wisp of a cloud?
Have you ever had someone who’s hurt you tell you they love you? I have and, unfortunately, at a young age, I came to believe that love hurt. Well, it doesn’t and it shouldn’t. Let me add one caveat: love hurts when the person we love leaves either through death or because they want out of the relationship. Then, for sure, there is pain. But if you’re in a relationship that causes angst, self-doubt, and pain—run as fast as you can.
Raised in a home where I was subjected to physical violence and verbal abuse from my older half-brother, I grew up confused about love. When I told my mother I hated my brother, she’d always say, “No, you don’t. You love him.” I convinced myself I loved him and he loved me. But the truth is, he didn’t. No one could hurt me that much and claim to love me. The physical wounds were nothing compared to the long-lasting harm to my self-esteem and soul.
The real me got buried under the pain and if my brother wasn’t hurting me, I found ways to hurt myself. I got into and stayed in relationships that further undermined my self-confidence. Eventually, I collapsed under the weight of the lies I’d learned about myself. Only when I could no longer emotionally get up on my own was I able to do the hard work of learning to love myself. Learning to never settle for anything less than kindness and love in action.
I didn’t understand until I was in my early fifties that love doesn’t and shouldn’t hurt. Love is not another job. Love is what you do and not what you say. Love is supportive, not demanding. Love is choosing kindness. Love is gentle, nurturing, and fills us up. Love that deflates us is not love.
A relative by marriage said he loved me. He said this more than once. I knew he didn’t because in all the years I’ve known him, he’s never done one loving thing that made me feel loved. He barely cares about me and that’s clear. His words meant nothing, touched nothing deep inside me, and added nothing to my life. I couldn’t force myself to reflexively respond, I love you, too, because that would be a lie. I couldn’t pretend to love someone who doesn’t care about me.
It’s hard to love someone who doesn’t care. At least it should be. We can act lovingly and be kind, but we don’t have to give our hearts to anyone who wouldn’t understand the gift we offer.
At the time I met my current husband, I was more than willing to be alone the rest of my life unless I could be with a person who was right for me. That unwillingness to compromise gave me the best love of my life. And I think one of the things that makes our relationship nurturing is that we’re polite with each other. Yes, we have manners. We use important words like please and thank you. We tell each other I love you many times each day because we mean it. Love is not just a word to us.
In 20 years, we have never once yelled at each other. Of course, we’ve had disagreements. Minor scuffles that last minutes, if even that long. Why? Because we don’t let wounds accumulate and fester. We remain present and deal with issues as they arise. We sweep away those mites immediately rather than let them amass until an army of dusty grievances accumulates in every room.
Our love doesn’t hurt, except for those times when my husband was whisked off in an ambulance and almost died. That hurt, of course. And it should.
I reserve pain in love for big things like death do us part. Otherwise, I’m in it for the love that means how we treat each other and how we treat ourselves.
Please tell me about how you love and what love means to you.
We learn from each other.
And for your enjoyment:
My father used to say, you don't need to say you love me, just show me.
Being loved is one of the most wonderful feelings to experience. I know!