By: Dr. J. Bliss
I once mistook survival for strength.
I stood watch over my own heart
like a faithful guard dog,
pacing the fence line,
ears alert,
eyes fixed on every possibility of hurt.
I called it wisdom.
Perhaps part of it was.
Pain had taught me
that love could leave bruises no one sees,
that disappointment could echo for years,
that giving your heart away
was not something to do carelessly.
So I made a promise to myself.
No.
No more hoping.
No more dreaming.
No more building futures in my mind
that life might never deliver.
I convinced myself
that I needed less.
Less vulnerability.
Less longing.
Less love.
And for a while,
I believed it.
Then God placed a mirror before me,
and it looked like a man
I never intended to love.
I did not fall into love.
I argued with it.
Questioned it.
Examined it.
Resisted it.
I told my heart to sit down and be quiet.
It refused.
Because every time I looked at him,
something gentle rose up in me.
I wanted him safe.
I wanted him rested.
I wanted him healthy.
I wanted him to know
that someone was thinking about him
when he drove another mile down another highway.
I wanted to care for him
in ways I could not explain.
The strangest part was not loving him.
The strangest part
was discovering how much love
still lived inside me.
I thought that part of me
had gone to sleep.
But there it was,
stretching awake.
And suddenly I found myself imagining
ordinary things.
Morning light.
Coffee.
His face beside mine.
The simple gift of reaching out
and touching someone you trust.
Not because I needed rescuing,
but because peace had finally arrived.
That is what surprised me most.
The peace.
Not excitement.
Not obsession.
Peace.
The kind that settles softly
and says,
“You don’t have to defend yourself here.”
The kind that reminds a weary soul
that tenderness is not weakness.
And somewhere along the way,
I realized this story was never only about him.
It was about me.
About the woman who thought
she had to protect herself from love.
About the woman who believed
that closing the door
was safer than opening it.
About the woman who forgot
that hearts were made
not only to give love,
but to receive it.
I learned that trust is earned.
I still believe that.
But I also learned
that once trust arrives,
love asks another question:
Will you let yourself receive
what you’ve spent years denying you need?
That was the harder lesson.
Not loving.
Receiving.
Not giving.
Believing I was worthy of being given to.
And now when I look back,
I see God’s hand everywhere.
Not pushing.
Not forcing.
Teaching.
Patiently showing me
that I was never too much.
My heart was never the problem.
Its depth was never the problem.
Its tenderness was never the problem.
It simply needed a safe place
to come alive again.
So if you ask me
what my heart needed,
the answer is simpler than I expected.
My heart needed permission.
Permission to love.
Permission to hope.
Permission to rest.
Permission to stop standing guard
over every doorway.
Permission to trust that God
could protect me better
than fear ever could.
And in learning to love another,
I discovered something beautiful:
My heart had been waiting
all along
for me to come home to it.
