For a long time, I thought the love I wanted was somewhere out there, waiting for me to stumble into the right person who would finally “get it.”

But here’s what I’ve learned:  Love doesn’t start when someone else shows up.

It starts when you do.

Becoming the Person Who Attracts What You Want

If you’ve ever read anything about manifestation or the law of attraction, you’ve probably heard the phrase “like attracts like.” But what it really means, on a soul level, is that you’ll always draw in relationships that reflect where you’re currently operating from.

If you’re used to over-giving, you’ll meet takers.

If you’re used to hiding parts of yourself, you’ll meet people who overlook you.

If you believe love means chasing, you’ll meet people who run.

So the shift begins when you stop asking, “Where’s my person?” and start asking, “Who am I being?”

When I began writing out the traits I wanted in a partner, things like integration and transparency, intentional romance, mutual effort, and leadership without control, I realized I wasn’t just describing him.

I was describing me.

Or at least, the version of me ready to receive that kind of love.

Preparing for Love by Practicing It

Being the love you want to receive isn’t about pretending you’re in a relationship. It’s about creating the environment for that love to exist.

✨ If you want honesty, speak truthfully, even when it’s uncomfortable.

✨ If you want consistency, show up for yourself every day.

✨ If you want affection, soften instead of guarding your heart out of fear.

✨ If you want effort, treat your own growth like a priority.

The universe doesn’t give us what we want; it mirrors who we are becoming.

So I’m learning to live in that vibration now, to embody the kind of love that feels calm, reciprocal, and safe.

Getting Ready, Not Waiting

There’s something powerful about preparing your life like love’s already on its way, not in a desperate “manifest him” way, but in a grounded, I’m ready when it’s right kind of way.

You decorate your space with warmth.

You nurture your routines.

You speak kindly to yourself.

You stop settling for people who can’t meet you where you’re headed.

That’s how love finds you; when it doesn’t have to save you, it just has to join you.

My Beginner Manifestation Rule

Start by acting as if your ideal relationship is already your reality.

How would you talk?

How would you move through your day?

How would you treat yourself?

Then do that.

That’s what “being the love you want to receive” really means: becoming a match for what you’re asking for, instead of waiting for someone else to bring it to you.

For most of my life, I’ve been a “try harder” kind of person.

If something felt off in a relationship or friendship, my first instinct wasn’t to pull back; it was to do more.

Be kinder. Be more understanding. Be easier to love.

But lately, I’ve realized something I wish I’d learned years ago: It’s not my job to prove I’m enough.

It’s my job to walk away from anyone who treats me like I’m not.

I Used to Think Love Meant Fighting for People

I thought being loyal meant holding on, even when things felt one-sided.

I thought if I just stayed long enough, loved hard enough, and forgave fast enough, people would eventually see my worth.

But all that did was teach me how to exhaust myself in the name of hope.

When you constantly prove yourself, you start believing you’re the problem.

You start measuring your value by how much someone else can handle you.

The Truth Is: People’s Actions Usually Have Nothing to Do With You

It took me a long time to realize how someone treats me says more about their capacity to love than my worth.

Their inconsistency, silence, and inability to meet me halfway are not a reflection of my flaws. It’s a reflection of their limitations.

When someone fails to recognize your value, it’s not because you’re too much.

It’s because they’re not capable of holding someone as deep and genuine as you.

I’m Learning to Walk Away Without Apologizing for It

Walking away used to feel like failure.

Now, it feels like freedom.

It’s not bitterness, it’s boundaries.

It’s the moment you stop auditioning for roles in other people’s lives and start starring in your own.

You don’t owe anyone an explanation for protecting your peace.

You don’t have to prove your worth to someone who’s made it clear they can’t see it.

Because you are enough, even if they never realize it.

A Note to Anyone Who Feels “Too Much”

You’re not too emotional. You’re not too complicated. You’re not asking for too much.

You’re just asking the wrong people.

The right people won’t make you beg for clarity, affection, or effort.

They’ll meet you there. No convincing required.

When you lose your partner, you don't just lose the person; you lose the witness to your entire story.

My late husband, James, and I were together for fifteen years. We married young, built a life from scratch, and grew up side by side. By the time we were parted by his death, we had practically become one person. Every memory, every inside joke, every quiet routine was stitched together with his presence.

So when I say I feel like I'll never be truly seen again, that's what I mean.

He Knew Me Because He Lived It With Me

James didn't have to ask why a particular song made me go quiet. He already knew. He knew which parts of my childhood made me guarded, and which ones made me soft. He didn't need me to explain why I overthink things; he had lived through every version of me that learned to do that.

When you've shared that much history with someone, you don't just feel loved; you feel understood. And that's the part grief doesn't warn you about: the loneliness of being known so completely and then having that mirror suddenly disappear.

Dating After Loss Feels Like Speaking a Language No One Else Understands

Trying to date again is strange. I'm carrying a lifetime of memories that someone new doesn't know. They don't know my "before." They don't know how I used to laugh when James and I got lost on road trips or how he always called me "Honey" even on my worst days.

I can tell new people the stories, but they weren't there. They didn't live the chapters where I became who I am now.

And honestly? That makes me feel like I'm walking around with a life that only one person ever truly understood, and he's gone.

The Fear of Never Being Fully Seen Again

Grief changes how you connect. After losing James, I notice myself watching new partners closely, waiting for the moment they see the "real me" and decide it's too heavy. The patterns, the triggers, the quiet moments where I pull away make sense in context, but only to someone who knows the full story.

Sometimes I think a new person will see those layers and run. Not because they're cruel, but because it's a lot to understand a life that started long before they showed up.

But Here's the Truth I'm Learning

Maybe I won't ever be "seen" exactly the same way again, and maybe that's okay.

Because the version of me James loved doesn't exist anymore. She evolved through loss, rebuilt herself through pain, and learned to stand on her own. The love I find next doesn't need to recreate the past; it needs to meet the woman I've become because of it.

Being seen again starts with me allowing it to be known, not compared. I want to let someone new discover me piece by piece, even if they never know the full story.