Jan 27
She drifts through her days, caught in an endless search for something she cannot quite name. A love she imagines as something distant, fleeting—something outside of herself, waiting to be discovered. But in her quiet seeking, she does not see what the world reflects back to her, what the winds carry in their gentle embrace, what the stars try to whisper when she gazes up at them with eyes full of wonder: she is love, in its truest, purest form.
It is there in the way her laughter fills the spaces between people, like sunlight breaking through the clouds on a heavy day. It is in the way her eyes soften when she listens, truly listens, as though each word spoken to her is a gift she treasures. It is in the way she tends to the small and forgotten things—watering a wilting plant, feeding a stray animal. Love flows from her so effortlessly, so instinctively, that she forgets to notice it.
Her spirit shines in ways she cannot yet see. It is a light not loud or demanding, but steady, like a distant nebula glowing in the vast expanse of the universe, illuminating even the darkest corners. She looks for love in fleeting places—other people, distant dreams, imagined futures—not realising that the very thing she aches for has always lived within her.
For every time she has reached out to console another, for every moment she has paused to appreciate the gentle beauty of the world, for every word of encouragement she has whispered into someone else’s storm, she has been love in motion. And yet, she questions her worthiness, wondering if she is enough. She chases after the feeling of being seen, not understanding that she is already the reflection of everything she seeks.
There is no love greater than the way she exists—whole, raw, and true. There is no beauty brighter than the way she moves through the world, carrying love in every step, scattering it like seeds she does not even realise she is planting. One day, perhaps, she will stop searching and finally stand still long enough to feel it: the quiet, unwavering truth that she is, and has always been, more than enough. She is the love she has been searching for all along.
It is there in the way her laughter fills the spaces between people, like sunlight breaking through the clouds on a heavy day. It is in the way her eyes soften when she listens, truly listens, as though each word spoken to her is a gift she treasures. It is in the way she tends to the small and forgotten things—watering a wilting plant, feeding a stray animal. Love flows from her so effortlessly, so instinctively, that she forgets to notice it.
Her spirit shines in ways she cannot yet see. It is a light not loud or demanding, but steady, like a distant nebula glowing in the vast expanse of the universe, illuminating even the darkest corners. She looks for love in fleeting places—other people, distant dreams, imagined futures—not realising that the very thing she aches for has always lived within her.
For every time she has reached out to console another, for every moment she has paused to appreciate the gentle beauty of the world, for every word of encouragement she has whispered into someone else’s storm, she has been love in motion. And yet, she questions her worthiness, wondering if she is enough. She chases after the feeling of being seen, not understanding that she is already the reflection of everything she seeks.
There is no love greater than the way she exists—whole, raw, and true. There is no beauty brighter than the way she moves through the world, carrying love in every step, scattering it like seeds she does not even realise she is planting. One day, perhaps, she will stop searching and finally stand still long enough to feel it: the quiet, unwavering truth that she is, and has always been, more than enough. She is the love she has been searching for all along.
