Essay 67: Just Be the One Who Loves More

I don’t know who needs to hear this today, but … just be the one who cares more. Be the one who loves the most. Seriously. Be the one who actually gives the biggest greatest damn. Who texts back. Who remembers the date. Who keeps their word even when no one's checking. Who makes it special. Who listens to understand and doesn’t disappear when things get a little too human. A little too raw. 

Be the one who doesn’t play the game. Refuse to be cool and protected at the cost of being kind and open. Be the one who still shows up with heart, even when it’s inconvenient, even when it’s misunderstood, even when it hurts. Even when it’s not returned. Yes, especially then.

The world is not suffering from too much feeling. It’s suffering from emotional drought. From people who are terrified to mean something. So let your love be excessive. Let your presence be unmistakable. Let your effort be the thing that makes the whole room remember what sincerity looks like.

Be the love you wish you were going to marry. Be the one you hope your future children meet. Be the one your past self would be proud to have become. Be the one you can count on. 

And if you’re exhausted from the half-hearted, half-there, half-alive, half-honest energy around you … then don’t match it. Refuse it. Stop mirroring the mediocrity. Don’t dim to blend in. 

On the contrary: Intensify. Be the contrast. Be the signal fire. Be the sincerest light.

At the end of your life, you don’t carry pristine emotions you never used. Leave this earth with a worn, weathered, and wildly generous heart. With love that left marks. With care that made it shake. With faith that bled into every corner of your days. With hope that could fix the world. 

It is always—always—more noble to be bruised from caring too much than to be untouched because you never dared to show up. So be the person who tries. Be the one who still believes in showing up fully. Because to love ferociously, even care recklessly, is not the downfall they make it out to be. It's the highest form of rebellion. It’s the greatest liberation. It is the one act left that can still wake the world up. 

Love like it’s your job. Love like it’s the legacy you were born to leave behind. Love until the air around you thickens with presence. Care until you can’t anymore and then, realise you can a little more still. Care until the people you touch don't just remember what higher love feels like, they think maybe they can feel it too. 

Walk through life like you're in on the secret. Because you are. You know the joy of being fully alive. Of feeling things at full volume. You’ve been drunk on sunsets, conversations, silences, and pain. On meaning. On God. So high on God's love, you can see through the lens. On the pure ecstasy of caring more than you should sometimes. Care knowingly, it's all for something; it was all needed where it landed.

Let others be calculated, curated, and composed. You, you be unapologetically real. Be the woman who never mastered the art of pretending not to care. Be the one who roots herself in love that imbues all she is. Who chose truth over image. Fire over fitting in. Soul over performance. Walk alone sometimes. But not lonely. Because the ones who feel this much, who burn this much, they often do walk alone, but with the grace of knowing they are divinely supported. 

You are not waiting to be chosen. You are living with devotion. And yes, be intimidating in that devotion. Be so steady in it scares people away. But only to the ones who cannot meet themselves in the mirror. You do not have to waste energy performing palatability.

Be luminous. Esoteric. Unmistakable. Turn blend rooms into temples. Little actions into commandments of love. Care. And care again. Not because you demand attention, but because you embody the love you give. You're a prayer in motion. Uninterested in gossip, unimpressed by noise, unpressed by society.

Let the world walk away if it must. Know your worth doesn’t shrink to fit the vision of others. Where your love is too much, it’s because it was never meant to be rationed. It was meant to be rare. And to be free and flowing. That’s what women are at their purest form. And let that be your pride: loved too hard, too wholly, too wildly. gave more than you got sometimes. never once saw that as a weakness.

Only proof. 

That love and care are the only proof that you are still awake in a world lulled to sleep.

And if it feels some days like you’re the last one left who feels like this… So be it. make it an art form. A legacy.

A flame that doesn’t go out. Just be the one who loves more.