rewriting what love means

i was not born broken. i was not born carrying shame. those things were forced into me by the very person who was supposed to protect me. my father—the man who should have been my safe place, my shield—was the one who tore me apart. i was mentally, emotionally, physically, and sexually abused by him. he took pieces of me before i even knew what they were. he carved fear into my body and silence into my mouth. he taught me that love was pain, that trust was dangerous, that safety was something i would never have.

there are no words deep enough to capture what that does to a child. the way you stop believing in softness. the way you stop feeling like your body belongs to you. the way your own reflection feels like a stranger because all you can see is what he did. the way your heart learns to twist pain into “normal” just so you can survive another day.

i thought love was supposed to hurt. i thought it was supposed to confuse me, to leave me apologizing for things i didn’t do, to hollow me out and still demand more. i thought love was walking on eggshells, shrinking smaller and smaller, swallowing my own voice just to keep the peace. i thought if i could be good enough, quiet enough, invisible enough, maybe the storms wouldn’t come. maybe i’d finally be safe.

but none of that was love. it was control. it was cruelty. it was abuse.

and here’s the hardest part: when that is the first version of “love” you are given, you carry it into your life. you mistake obsession for devotion. you think jealousy is passion. you believe control is protection. you let yourself be consumed, because you were taught being consumed was the same thing as being cherished. you call pain “love” because that’s all you’ve ever known.

but slowly, painfully, i’ve learned the truth: real love is nothing like what i was shown.

real love does not bruise. it does not silence. it does not demand you disappear to make room for someone else’s power. real love is not fear dressed as affection.

real love is steady. it’s a voice that doesn’t rise to shatter you. it’s a hand that doesn’t strike, but steadies. it’s laughter that fills the air without cutting it in half. it’s presence that feels like peace, not punishment. it’s someone staying not to control you, but because they want to. it’s safety and freedom existing together. it’s the reminder that you can take up space, that you can breathe loudly, that you can exist fully and still be loved.

he took so much from me. he stole childhood, innocence, trust. but he did not take my ability to heal. he did not destroy the part of me that refuses to give up, the part that chooses every day to unlearn his definition of love and rewrite my own.

he taught me that love was violence. i am teaching myself that love is peace. he taught me that my voice didn’t matter. i am learning that every word i write, every breath i take, is proof that i survived him. he taught me that i was unworthy. i am proving, over and over, that i am.

so when i ask myself, how was i supposed to know what love looks like, i remind myself: i wasn’t. not then. not with what i was given. but the miracle is this—I know now. i know because i’ve felt it. i know because i’m learning to see it. i know because i’m choosing it, over and over, every day.

the most radical thing i can do is continue to exist, to love anyway, to rewrite what was forced into me. the most beautiful act of resistance is this: to take the broken story i was given, and to turn it into something that feels like home.

with ink + bloom, 🌻