I don’t want a love where I bite my nails, wondering and worrying day and night if he’s going to love me, if he’s interested, if he’ll call, if I’m his type, and blah, blah, blah—overanalyzing and clinging to small signs of potential hope ’til I’m exhausted.
I want a love that shoots down to my toes as I feel my feet slide happily across damp, dewy grass, running side-by-side with a true partner through mountain meadows colored vibrant green and dotted with wildflowers, fragranced so sweet it’s almost hard to comprehend.
My love and I will smile at each other knowingly. We will pluck dandelions and throw them at each other playfully, our heads arched back in laughter, our mouths and hearts open wide, as the golden light of the sun spills into each of our cells and warms us to the bone, as our lips meet in a joyous kiss.
It will mean the world. Because we will both appreciate that fun is sacred—a spiritual experience in letting our guards down—and how laughter can cut through bullsh*t, getting to the beauty that always lies underneath.
I don’t want a love that puts me on edge—that scares me, consumes me, or drowns me.
I want a love that makes me feel safe. Confident. Secure. And makes itself clearly known to me.
I don’t want a love that is even slightly out of reach, unhealthy, a fantasy, or unavailable in any way.
I’ve settled too many times.
I’ve put up with too much sh*t.
I’ve set too few boundaries.
I’ve clung to hope when I really shouldn’t have.
This is mine to own now, without guilt. I own it so I can set myself free and begin to let go of anything that blocks the flow of love to this precious heart of mine.
I have shed a thousand tears for all the things that hurt—not valuing myself. Giving too much. Giving away my power for the sake of saving crappy relationships. Not speaking my mind.
It’s been a long and arduous journey to find my wings. I’ve fallen down in the mud, I’ve felt worthless, and I’ve doubted myself more times than I can count, but I rise now.
I rise, and I feel the goodness, the love that I am, that we all are—it runs deep, like currents of pure electricity that speak to the juicy cosmic center sparked to life in my soul.
I want a love that sets me free.
I stand tall, crystal clear, in knowing what I want, what I need. And I know I’ll find it. I know I deserve it.
I want a love that sets me free. Nothing less will do.
Because I don’t want a love that suffocates me or makes me feel small—like a scattered, shadowy version of myself.
I want a love that expands. That rises. That burns, hot and steady; gentle and proud.
I want a love that moves me, and makes my hips sway like snakes.
I want a love that rains down all around me—a big love—that is unafraid of its own thundering intensity.
I want a love that is peaceful and kind.
I don’t ever want to call it love again, When I’m bending and twisting myself into knots, pleasing, care-taking, overextending, utterly codependent, and riddled with loads of anxiety, until I finally snap—that is not love. And I won’t call that love anymore.
No thanks. Been there, done that.
And I don’t want a love that starts out too hot, too arrogant, and consumes itself in a blaze of selfish glory, leaving my heart drained and my body sad and weak.
I want a real, beautiful, healthy love that, like a fine red wine, only gets better with time, with gentle effort it becomes sweeter, riper—more delicate, more complex.
I want a love that is soft.
A love that surrounds me in the hard moments with lace. With grace. With belief in the strong goddess of the woman I am.
I want—more than anything else—a love that sets me free. That soars. That lights me up in all my twinkling, raw, stardust glory.
Because I won’t dim my light for anyone. Not ever again.
I won’t give my magic away for free.
I want the kind of love that is just the cherry on top of my already awesome life.
I want a love where we make art together, baring our hearts, taking off our oldest masks, lighting up our corners of the world as we dance at dusk to the drums of our hearts until the sun breaks like a yolk over the mountains in the morning, gold and buttery yellow, and we fall asleep, exhausted but fulfilled in one another’s arms.
I want a love that knows I am already whole.
And I want a love that is whole without me but thinks life is just a little spicier and a lot more beautiful with me by his side.
Yes, I want us to both be complete on our own but better together. Stronger together. More beautiful, side by side.
I want a love that is just as soft as rose petals and burning fiery-hot as I am.
And I want a love that is willing to go there—to the places that hurt. To the stories we tell ourselves that need to be destroyed. To the truth that aches to leave our lips and be told.
I want a love that sets me free. A love that can weather reality. A love I can lean on, sometimes.
I want, I need, and I crave a love where we walk purposefully together, through the rough patches, the smooth spots, the splashing puddles, the ice, and the sunny days—as a team.
I want love that is reliable. Stable. Solid. Responsible. Dependable. You know, all those things that we used to say are boring, but are actually important, magnificent, and make love last in the long run.
I want a love that sets me free.
I want a love that is never insecure, but inspires me to flesh out in more peacock-like feathers, to rise higher in the plumes of my soul’s purpose, to speak louder, to laugh harder, to feel more deeply, to feel really good. I want us to rise together.
I want a love that never dampens my flames at all, but encourages ’em to flourish. To burn, baby, burn—bright gold, yellow, tangerine, and vibrant ruby red.
I want a love that is real and just a little bit magical.
I want a love that gives me space and time alone—to rest, to dance, to heal, to be with friends, to create, to spill more words on these pages as the ink from my heart encases me in gold and paints a huge smile on my face—and isn’t jealous at all.
I want a love that loves how passionately I tend to my life.
I want a love that respects all women as goddesses.
I want a love that is just as colorful, vibrant, and ecstatic as I’ve known my soul to be.
I want love sprinkled with fresh adventures—both inner and outer. I want to go to snow-capped mountains, to frothy turquoise seas, and the places inside of us we’ve never taken another.
I want a love that sets me free.
But by no means do I want a love that is perfect.
I welcome wrinkles and chips on the sides, like an old china teacup—for these things only add charm, value, tenderness, and character. It will have quirks—all loves do—but I want it to be peaceful. A love that simply works—no forcing required. Ease. Harmony. Flow.
I want a love that is sweet. Vulnerable, down to the silken seams.
Yes, this brings dewy tears to my eyes.
I want a love who loves me wildly, exactly for who I am.
And I will love him wildly, exactly for who he is.
Is there anything more freeing than that?
Author: Sarah Harvey
Image: Martin Garrido/ Flickr
Editor: Ashleigh Hitchcock