Entre la vie

We are taught, quietly and young, to believe that love is a garden we must tend relentlessly—if we water enough, bloom enough, stand tall enough, perhaps then we will be worthy of harvesting its fruits. But love is no garden with locked gates. It is wild rain, falling where it may, unbound by deserts or meadows.

Some hearts will be open fields, ready to drink you in. Others, drought-stricken, no matter how tenderly you pour yourself out. It was never your fault. The rain does not apologize for where it does not fall.

This is not just the story of lovers. It is the unspoken truth hiding in the cracks between family portraits and quiet friendships. Some people are simply not vessels for the love you crave. You could shapeshift into a thousand versions of yourself, but their hands may never be able to hold what you offer. And oh, how we grieve this! How we stand at closed doors, pressing our palms to wood that will never swing open.

But listen, gently now—there is no ledger. No cosmic scale measuring whether you have done enough to be adored. Love is not earned, it is given, like the wind against your cheek or the hush of twilight after a storm.

And dearest, even the love you owe yourself is not a payment for perfection. It is a kindness, a soft hymn you sing into the hollow parts of your chest.

This does not mean you must stop growing. Grow, yes, bend towards the light, tend your roots, soften the sharp edges when you can. But do not grow because you think love hides just beyond one more version of you. Do not bloom only to prove you are worthy of being chosen.

You do not have to become more to be loved. You do not have to punish yourself for the spaces where love has yet to arrive.

You only have to be, and let love, when it comes, arrive like the ocean: vast, unearned, and free.

-Vie (23-Mar-2025, like the moon in silver glow, you’re worthy now, though you don’t know)