A Love Story, Lived

I loved early. Not recklessly—steadily. I chose a boy before the world taught me how many reasons there were to leave.

While others searched for themselves, I grew alongside someone else. We became adults together, learning the shape of commitment not as a concept, but as a daily practice. Staying. Choosing. Repairing. Love, for me, was never dramatic—it was deliberate.

I did not come from ease. My early life taught me how to read rooms, how to endure silence, how to be strong long before I felt safe. Love wasn’t modeled as something gentle or reliable; it was something you worked for, something you learned to protect. And so I grew up resilient, capable, and—if I’m honest—often braced.

There was a time I numbed. A time when I stepped away from myself, thinking distance was the same as freedom. But healing has a way of calling you back. I stopped running. I started listening. And slowly, I learned how to be present in my own life without needing to escape it.

I became a woman who builds safety—not just in relationships, but in spaces. In work. In conversations. I learned how to hold grief without being consumed by it, how to lead without hardening, how to remain soft in a world that rewards armor. I discovered that tenderness and strength are not opposites; they are companions.

I built a life that makes room for others. I raised children into adults I admire. I created work that matters to me—not because it looks impressive, but because it helps people feel less alone. I learned to treat my body as a home instead of a battleground, and my past as a teacher instead of a verdict.

Love lives everywhere now. In a long marriage that has weathered seasons. In quiet mornings by the water. In meaningful work. In choosing kindness even when chaos is loud. In the deep knowing that I do not need to prove my worth by how much I can carry.

Leigh Ann

Midlife has surprised me. It arrived not as a decline, but as a deepening. I am clearer. Less interested in approval. More rooted in what matters. I am becoming a grandmother. I am opening new chapters. I am no longer in a hurry to become someone else.

What I know now is this: love is not just who stays. It’s who you become when you stop leaving yourself behind.

And this—this season, this steadiness, this wholeness—is the greatest love story of my life.