She always gave first.
She was the one who remembered birthdays, initiated the hugs, reached out after arguments.
She held space. She forgave quickly. She adjusted. She understood.
At first, it came from a place of love.
She wanted to be the glue, the light, the safe one.
But slowly—quietly—that giving started to feel heavy.
Not because she didn’t want to give.
But because it stopped being received with the same depth it was offered.
He wasn’t unkind. He just stopped noticing.
Or maybe, she thought, he never really noticed to begin with.
This is how it begins for so many people.
We love with our whole hearts. We pour ourselves into someone.
And when they don’t respond the way we hope—when they don’t meet us with the same energy—we don’t pull back.
We give more.
We convince ourselves that maybe, if we just love harder, try harder, understand more, they’ll finally understand what we need too.
But here’s the quiet truth:
Overgiving is not love.
It’s often a hidden plea: “Please see me. Please choose me. Please love me back the way I love you.”
And when that plea goes unanswered long enough, something shifts.
Love turns into bitterness.
Care turns into resentment.
Connection turns into a scoreboard.
So how do we break that cycle?
Not with blame. Not with guilt. And not by keeping score.
We break it by remembering that love was never meant to be a transaction—it was always meant to be a shared space. A place where both people could bring their full hearts, their messy truths, and still feel safe.
Maybe it starts with a different kind of question:
- What do I need to feel seen—not just useful?
- How can I give with tenderness, not tension?
- And… what would it feel like to love again, without fear of being left alone in it?
Because the truth is—most people don’t want to stop giving.
They just want to feel like their love lands.
And here’s the most beautiful part:
Sometimes, love becomes unequal not because one person stopped caring— but because they stopped believing their care still mattered.
But it does. It always did.
And maybe—just maybe—what’s needed now isn’t more effort, but more honesty.
Not louder love, but safer love.
The kind that says:
“I still want to give to you. Not because I have to—but because loving you still lives inside me. And I’d rather offer that from truth than from fear.”
To anyone who’s ever whispered,
“I just want to feel close again…”
I see you.
Your love is worthy.
And it’s never too late to learn a new rhythm—together.
Just try. Speak from the heart. Offer one true moment of softness.
You might be surprised how love remembers.
Just try — and see the magic.
