February 14th (45/365)

Ah, Valentine’s Day. A day drenched in red and pink, stuffed with overpriced chocolates, and draped in the heavy scent of expectations—expectations that, for me, are rarely met.

For the last 11 years, this day has been a huge source of disappointment and hurt. Year after year, I let myself believe that maybe this time would be different. That maybe this time, someone would show up for me the way I had always shown up for them. But reality often hits like a slap in the face, reminding me that love—at least the kind that’s hyped up in movies and on social media—has a way of slipping through my fingers.

I wanted things to be different. I wanted days like this—and my birthday—to feel like something worth celebrating with someone who truly sees me. And for a moment, I thought this year was finally going to be that change. I had my heart set on my "Anti-Valentines" plans this weekend, so excited that this Valentine’s Day wouldn’t feel like all the others. But last-minute delays and cancellations are proving, yet again, that I’m just not supposed to celebrate this day in any way.

I have amazing friends who are trying so hard to acknowledge me today, sending love and wishes, and it’s beautiful. I see it, I appreciate it, and I hold onto it. But it doesn’t fully quiet the ache of wanting something more—something deeper, something just for me.

So, I’ve stopped getting my hopes up. I’ve stopped waiting for grand gestures, for surprise deliveries, for the kind of love that makes February 14th feel magical. Instead, I’ve learned to sit with my own company, to pour love into myself instead of waiting for someone else to do it. It hasn’t always been easy, and truthfully, some years still sting more than others. But at least now, the letdown isn’t as sharp. The disappointment isn’t as surprising.

Like all the years past, won’t be celebrating Valentine’s Day, not in the traditional sense. But I will be acknowledging it for what it is—a day that once had power over me but doesn’t anymore.

🫰🥰🫖 𝒥ℛ𝒯