I wish I could count on one hand the number of people who have told me that I love too much. That my love is too intense for some to handle. My heart is too big for anyone to carry. That I am the reason why I feel so destroyed whenever love comes to an end. When someone says, “It’s okay to be loving, but you tend to love too much,” I wonder how anyone could change the way that they love.
How can I love too much, when there has only been one person in my life that I expressed those words to?
Is loving too much really categorized by my loyalty and my ability to express freely how I feel to that person in any given moment? My love doesn’t just extend to a potential partner. My love is held for you, my friends, for being my laughter and my happiness. My love is reserved for my family who accepts me and has taught me all the different aspects of love, from my parents’ beautiful marriage, my sister’s passionate arguments with her own boyfriend, and the cherishing love of a true family. My love is curious and observant, and it learns and grows, just like a child would.
Would you prefer that my love be an almost love? The kind that feels like going on a hike, almost making it to the end, and then turning around instead to the starting point. An almost love almost worked. We could have almost been lovers. We almost were forever. I almost gave you everything. I almost let you carry the weight of the heart I wore on my sleeve. But I didn’t.
Let me tell you something. I am made of love. I was conceived out of love and passion.
I was raised in the warmth of affectionate arms and motherly kisses, stories at nighttime, and being carried on supporting shoulders that would support me forever. I tell my closest friends that I love them when we’re about to hang up. I tell my sisters I love them, even after an argument about who took whose shirt. Too much love? I was taught love.
I’m not a reckless lover, the kind who is too careless with my emotions. I am protective of my heart, and I make sure to think before I let any of it show. The first boy who told me he loved me, I didn’t believe. But the first man who did, I immediately said it back. I know what love means, and I know how special it is to finally bring it to light. And our love really could have almost been forever. But life is a kiss and ride, and he was taken at the next stop. My love was real, so of course I was destroyed. Who wouldn’t be?
My love is strong because I am here to support it. And my love is multilingual in expression to those who deserve it most. It’s an act of service when I fold your t-shirt from the night before and set it on a made bed. It’s a small gift when I share a poem that I wrote thinking of you. It’s quality time when we don’t need to attend an event of extravagance, and I can just lay next to you in silence, with both of us deep in thought. It’s a touch that exudes affection, when I brush an eyelash from your cheek, or I take your hand under the table. And I am words of affirmation, when I tell you how safe I feel with you, or how much I appreciate you being a part of my life.
There is nothing wrong with being a person who loves, and is able to show it. An almost love hurts. An almost love keeps you asking what you could have done better, or what you did wrong. But a real love, where everything is on the table, is the kind you learn from, or let continue to effloresce. You put yourself out there, your entire heart, your words, your touch, and your time. There is no coming back from it. Let your love flourish.
Let it be whole, never almost.