Dear Love: A Debut Signature Collection

Dear Love, 

You’re not what I thought you were.

 And for that—for a long time—

 I blamed you.

Not for who you are,

 but for who I was taught you’d be:

 a gift,

 a promise,

 the answer.

They said you'd come easy—

 in roses,

 in rings,

 in a match to mirror me perfectly.

But you came quiet.

 You came crooked.

 You came when I wasn’t looking for you at all.

You came in silence.

 And in storms.

 In the way my dog waited by the door—

 even when no one else did.

I used to think you lived in grand gestures.

 Now I know:

 you’re a quiet endurance.

 A soft decision made again and again.

Dear Love,

I found you in pain—

 not because you were the pain,

 but because you sat beside me through it.

I met you in the breathless stretch of childbirth,

 when life felt like it might split me open for good.

 You whispered in the wail of a new voice,

 reminding me: love doesn’t always arrive gently.

I met you again in a hospital room,

 where breath was leaving slow.

 Still—you did not leave.

 You stayed in the hands I held,

 in the gratitude that rose

 even in goodbye.

Dear Love,

People say you hurt.

 But the ache?

 That’s not you.

That’s the grief of what we thought you should’ve been.

 The ghost of fairy tales and all the things we squeeze you into.

You’ve never asked to be anyone’s fantasy.

 You’ve only asked to be real.

And real, you are.

 In the choice to stay.

 And in the strength it took to walk away.

I thought choosing myself meant I was turning from you—

 but it was the first time I chose you honestly.

Dear Love,

You’ve worn many faces:

 A stranger who showed kindness without reason.

 A friend who held my story like it was sacred.

 A sister—not by blood—but by bond.

 A child who showed me where wonder still lives.

And you’ve been misnamed.

 So many times.

 By those who shouted your name

 and wore you like a coat that never fit—

 too loud, too proud,

 hoping no one would notice.

But I’ve learned to listen.

 I can now spot the difference.

Because I’ve known what isn’t you—

 And that knowing?

 That’s the gift of time.

 Of age.

 Of becoming.

Dear Love,

It’s taken me years to see you clearly.

You are not the destination.

 You are the road.

 The dark and the dawn.

 The bruise and the balm.

And what a joy it is—

 to carry you forward.

Not as perfection.

 But as offering.

 As truth.

 As light passed from my hands to another’s.

Dear Love,

You’re not what I thought you were.

 You’re better.

Because now that I know you—

 I can be you.

 And give you.

 And teach you by how I live.

What a gift.

What an honor.

Forever learning,

Eternally grateful,

—Me