We mostly talk about the delight, security, and steadiness of love. What about the messy sides, the pieces that are broken, and the raw nerve endings that are revealed when love gets too close?
Love changes us. It doesn’t promise ease—it requires confrontation. And that confrontation, most of the time, is from inside: our old wounds, insecurities, or fears that come up in the presence of the person who loves us. If we allow it, love has the power to shatter us—and that shattering can be the origin of a deeper relationship.
The Wounded Heart as a Gateway
I once thought that love was about finding someone who “fixed” me—whose stability would be the one to fill all my cracked places. In that kind of love, my wounds were my weaknesses. I hid them, feeling ashamed.
However, I gradually realized that these wounds are actually doors. They are invitations to bring love, curiosity, and trust into the parts of ourselves that we most want to hide. When we let ourselves be met there, the relationship goes beyond performance and is authentic.
Healing is not about erasing the wound but about allowing someone to be with you when it is hurting.
When Fear Gets Vocal
Almost always, when love comes close, fear murmurs, “You are not enough.” “They will leave.” “You will be exposed.” We dispute these voices or sometimes quiet them. We cover them up with distractions or leave completely.
But what if we did listen to them?
When a fear comes up—jealousy, insecurity, abandonment—it is not a mistake to be hidden but a signal to be acknowledged. I have learned to stop, identify the fear (“I am afraid you will leave me”), and also share it. The more I opened up, the more trust—and sometimes mercy—was given to me.
Love That Holds Space
Now, the one thing I desire from love is that it holds space. Not the polished, perfect love. Not the love that requires perfection. But the love that sees the cracks and doesn’t hesitate to come close.
When I say “I am anxious,” and I am met with “I understand you,” not “You are ”overreacting”—that is love.
When I say “I need help,” and I am met with “I want to help” and not with irritation—that is love.
If I am caught in my old habits and someone chooses to stay, then that is love.
This type of love does not automatically make me whole. But it does allow me to heal through love.
Trust as a Practice—Not a Given
Many times, we regard trust as something that is earned once and then relied upon forever. However, trust is like a living creature: it is perishable, sensitive, and needs to be renewed daily. Especially when we are in pain.
In situations when trust is on the verge, I tend to question myself:
What small promise can I make today that I will be able to keep?
Which boundary do I have to set so that I do not implode?
What kind of consistency would comfort me—and can I actually request it?
Trust is brought into existence through small and steady turns: “I am sorry,” “I was wrong,” “I am here,” “I listen,” “I stay.”
An Invitation to Love Your Wounds
If you read this and have a quiet feeling that reflects maybe from your chest or your stomach, know that you are not the only one. Our wounded hearts are burdens of both pain and sagacity. They bear the past of loss, shame, and longing. But when love comes close—gently, courageously—we are freed from the yoke.
There is no need to hide your cracks. Someone let us see them. Someone let them breathe with you. Love lets you break—so you can grow more spacious, more tender, and more real.
Since love changes us. Love makes us human. Perhaps—at the very places between the bruises and the hope—we don’t find perfection, but something more demanding: belonging.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Everton Vila on Unsplash
