Between Longing and Trust
I was terrified of love. I don’t remember when the fear began. I’m sure it came from an accumulation of experiences, but it has existed for as long as I can remember. It wasn’t love itself that frightened me, but the ache that always seemed to follow. An impending abandonment—spiritual, emotional, physical, or of self—and love was always to blame. So I “loved” deeper, harder, with control, and to exhaustion.
My curiosity to master this thing called love led me to explore it from every angle: loving my neighbor as myself, love languages and attachment styles, behaviors and actions, dopamine surges, even unconditionality by birth. Yet I always arrived at the same conclusion. Love was a fallacy, and the hope of attaining it was the very madness that kept it alive.
When I turned 40, love imploded. It dismantled my definition, reshaped my understanding of the past, and quietly guided my future. Not through grand gestures, but through moments that were deeply felt.
Moment One…
My dad died a few weeks before my 40th birthday. We had a complicated relationship, but I showed up in his final moments, and it was the closest I ever felt to him. We spoke at length about the past and promised each other to let go of regret. Even then, there was lightness between us.
I promised him I’d never buy a Tesla, that I’d keep my adventurous spirit of exploration alive, and that I’d continue to paint and write. But the most profound thing he said to me was simple:“Go love and be loved.”
When he left this earth, it felt as though he also left me with an ache—and a burden—I didn’t know how to carry. After just over a year of therapy, walking through grief and this impossible task, I came to realize that I had loved and been loved my entire life. It was my fear of abandonment that had limited love’s potential.
I also came to understand that love isn’t something to achieve, like a gold sticker. It’s a continuous practice. Moving beyond fear. Leaning into vulnerability. Releasing expectations of outcome.
Moment Two…
In a way that felt almost serendipitous, after nearly a year of therapy, I fell in love for the first time.
I met Reese in the most unexpected of circumstances, which I’ll keep private. I had never met anyone like him before. He was handsome, creative, intelligent, charismatic, and lighthearted. It felt as though we were destined to meet, as if the stars had quietly aligned to guide us toward each other. For the first time, I felt truly seen, as though a mirror of love had been placed in front of me.
Reese and I were at different stages of becoming and self-understanding. As strong as the connection felt, I could also sense the distance of timing. Still, I leaned in with a quiet fear and without certainty of the future. I was present with him in every moment, as though time itself had loosened its grip.
He traveled often for work, and we didn’t see each other frequently, even though it felt as if we were tethered. The last time I held him, I told him I missed him. The ease with which those words left my body scared me, but I let the honesty take over.
Though this experience ended and my mind still drifts toward abandonment, even when I know that isn’t the truth—the one thing I did not abandon was myself. I stayed true to my boundaries and values while remaining open and vulnerable, without expectations of what might follow. I showed up fully. I allowed myself to be met, and to meet someone else in return.
I realized that I didn’t just fall in love with Reese. I fell in love with myself. For the first time, I allowed myself to feel without questioning, to be seen authentically, to love openly, and to miss—with a quiet fear.
(If you’re still reading, thank you for being present with me.)
Moment Three…
Unconditional love was the fallacy I resisted the most, despite living its actions and intentions throughout my life. It’s not that I had never loved unconditionally or been loved that way before, but this was the first time I felt it so clearly that it illuminated my past and guided my future.
I had the honor of being a bridesman in my dear friends Caitlyn and Austin’s wedding. We share a deep connection—perhaps written in the stars, if you believe in that—but also one grounded in accountability, presence, celebration, and simply enjoying one another as we are.
Through their love, my community grew exponentially. One person in particular unknowingly helped me carry out the task my dad left me with.
I got to know Rae through many social gatherings. She is the life of the party—wise, intelligent, and an avid reader in a way that inspires reverence. We stayed at the same hotel in San Francisco during the wedding weekend and shared many Ubers and Waymos to and from events.
After the wedding, we shared a ride back. I don’t remember the conversation, only the joy and lightness that filled the space. As we parted ways to our separate rooms, Rae simply said, “I love you.”
Without hesitation, I replied, “I love you too.”
And in that moment, something clicked. This was unconditional love. Another moment of not second-guessing, of presence, of mutual authenticity. We simply appreciated each other, exactly as we were.
⸻
As I embrace 2026 and my 43rd year around the sun, I’m letting go of the boulders and pebbles that once weighed me down. Love—and the effort I once poured into controlling it to avoid abandonment—has softened its hold. It has invited me to lean inward.
To embrace the tender parts of me that feel most fragile and afraid of love.
To meet the fears shaped by wounds and experience.
To love with courage and vulnerability.
To remember what it feels like to be alive.
Where are you in your relationship with love right now, and what part of you is quietly asking to lean in?
Lean In
My hand caressed my chest—
and made an incision in fear,
then held my heart.
Warm. Bloody. Raw.
Heartbeat—
steady in tempo.
No pause. No rest. Only motion.
My ears found home
in its rhythm.
In tune. Balanced. With devotion.
My eyes explored
the trembling edge of hesitation—
of my offering.
And then,
a whisper from within—
let go
and lean in.
- James Allen 2025