Easy to Love, Hard to Match

I’ve always said I’m easy to love.

Not because I’m simple — I’m anything but. But because the person I’ve become is someone I genuinely like being around. I’ve spent enough time with my own heart to know what it needs. I’ve listened, over and over, until I learned how to show up for myself — and that love? It overflowed. Into the way I care. Into how I move through the world. Into how I love others, assuming they want what I want: to feel special, to feel safe, to feel seen.

That’s the thing — it’s easy to love me, because I make you feel loved, too.

I plant seeds. I don’t force them to grow. I raise people up when they need it. I ask the deeper questions without making it a test. I water my own garden and let you see how beautiful it can become, if you choose to grow yours, too.

But matching me? That’s where things get rare.

Because I’m fast. I’m hilarious — truly, I crack myself up. I live in punchlines, layered meaning, and the joy of catching someone just before they catch me. And the truth? Most people don’t get it. They hear me laugh but don’t know why. They watch the sparkle but miss the signal. Matching me means dancing in the weird, in the wonder, in the in-between. And not many people can keep up with that rhythm.

It’s not that I outgrow people. I don’t discard souls like last season’s playlist. But I do keep trying. I love with my whole damn heart — raw and vulnerable and covered in glitter — over and over again. I give the blueprint. I model how I want to be loved. I stay when it’s uncomfortable. I try seven times too many. But when someone looks at all of that and still tells me I’m not enough?

I walk. And I don’t come back.

Because what else can I give after everything? You can’t make someone love a garden they refuse to water.

And the thing I’m still learning — still practicing — is how to hold my softness while protecting my peace. Boundaries used to confuse me. I thought they were walls, ultimatums, ways to shape others’ behavior. But that’s not it. A boundary is just the story I tell myself about how I’ll act when I feel hurt — not a rule for someone else.

So when my friend hangs out with someone who shattered me? That’s not their betrayal. That’s my cue. I get to decide whether I show up or go home. Whether I linger in pain or choose my own peace. It’s messy. Especially when you still love the people who hurt you. But peace doesn’t come from controlling others. It comes from choosing yourself.

I used to love a boy. Let’s call him “Cameron.”

Cameron had that rare spark — that same kind of soul-deep ache I carry. We had chemistry, connection, all the little signs. But over time, it became clear: I was pouring everything in and getting confusion back. I cracked my heart wide open — not once, but over and over — hoping he’d step up into the sunlight with me.

He didn’t. And I had to let go.

Because love alone isn’t enough. Matching means meeting me there — in the weirdness, in the wonder, in the work of it.

I want someone who sees the joke before I say it. Who can dance with me — literally and otherwise. Who makes mischief out of mundane moments and gets into the kind of trouble you can only cause with your best friend.

I think he’s out there.

I had a dream recently — the first one like it in forever. He looked like sunshine and ocean waves and freedom. I couldn’t see his face, not really, but I felt it. His laugh matched mine. His presence didn’t ask me to shrink. And when I woke up, I knew:

I’m not just easy to love. I’m ready to be matched.

Maybe love will come quietly. Maybe it’ll be a joke, a glance, a run side by side. I don’t know. But I’m ready for someone to stand at the edge of the storm with me — not to fix me, not to tame me, but to join me.

Let’s see who’s brave enough to meet me there.