This will probably be the most vulnerable post that I’ve written to date.

This morning I began to daydream about my future. I began to picture myself sitting on a porch swing, beside a man. I can’t see his face, but I can see his arm draped over my shoulder, in a protective way.

And I thought; I want love.

But not just any love. I want real love. True love. Genuine love. The kind that serves. The kind that protects.

Not the kind that keeps you guessing. Not the kind that drains you, confuses you, or makes you feel like you’re asking for too much when you’re really asking for the bare minimum.

After 25 years of marriage, that is the only love I’ve know. I’ve never truly felt chosen, accepted, known, wanted.

All I knew was survival. Love that was taking. Love that was using. Love that was manipulation. Love that kept score.

It was carrying the emotional weight of two people. It was parenting a grown man who never quite grew up. It was hoping—year after year—that things would shift, that maturity would come, that effort would meet me somewhere in the middle.

But it didn’t.

And somewhere along the way, I stopped asking for what I deserved and started settling for what was available.

Love is not supposed to feel like work you do alone.

Real love—healthy love—looks like partnership.

Wanting to be loved well is not weakness.
Wanting to be cherished is not desperation.
Wanting a partner who shows up fully is not unrealistic.