please love me
Let me set the scene.
It's the year 2000, I'm in middle school, and it's Valentine's Day.
As my mother once remarked, I was in my awkward phase. You know, those emerging teenage years where your body and soul feel out of sync. Acne is flaring (no thanks to the Stridex Acne Pads), hair is frizzy despite how hot my flat iron is, changing hormones make feelings so BIG, and my personal style is defined by the fact that I had just bought my first piece of clothing with my own money and it was an Old Navy Tech Vest.
I swear I wasn't a dork, though. I wasn't a popular pretty girl - largely because I was in Nebraska and that title was reserved for white girls with perfectly straight hair - but I was socially flexible. I was on the basketball and track team, in show choir, I had a good group of friends, and was a straight-A student. I didn't suffer from a debilitating lack of confidence, but as a Black kid adopted by white parents, who grew up in largely white-only environments, I was always aware of the double consciousness in which I moved through the world. As a result, I had a very loosely formed sense of self, which resulted in self-esteem that could best be described as flimsy.
But back to Valentine's Day.
I'm hanging out at my locker with some friends before classes start for the day, and like a teenage rom-com, my crush, a very cool, athletic, "traditionally midwestern hot" blonde-hair, blue-eyed guy named David Arden walks up to our group. We had some classes together, and our middle school was relatively small, so we all knew each other. I would say that he and I fell somewhere between good acquaintances and friends. Looking at me, he says, "Hey, this is for you," and passes a rose wrapped in pink tissue paper my way.
My brain short circuits and the world stops turning. I feel my cheeks burning and I want to throw up, cry, and squeal with glee at the same time. "Oh, that's...nice. Why are you giving me these?" I blurt out like this is no big deal. Popular cute guys give me roses all the time.
All chill-like, he says, "You're just really cool and nice to me."
Swoon.
That night, I went home and pressed the petals atop the pink tissue paper and the note, with David's decidedly middle school boy handwriting, into my scrapbook. I marked the moment on a piece of notebook paper: "These petals are from flowers that David Arden gave me on Valentine's Day, February 14, 2000."
Writing about this now, I can still feel that dizzying high of teenage feelings - a sweetly chaotic buzz of joy, nerves, and the exciting possibility of a crush! And I think the reason that this 25-year-old memory (I refuse to believe the reality of time) still feels so visceral is because it strikes at the core of something I've always believed: Love gives you the power to believe in the beauty of being seen, deeply, for who you really are and it reminds us that the goodness of others is only visible through the lens of love. Love is not cheesy or cringe, rather, love gives you the chance to experience the depth of the human experience - to be open, brave, and vulnerable.
In my teen years and my 20's, I wanted to be loved so badly. To be seen in the way that David saw me, but to actually believe that I deserved it. Maybe that's why I spent so much of my early adult years chasing that same feeling—the giddy magic of being seen, of being chosen. What I didn't understand was that being chosen by someone else wouldn't feel good if I couldn't see and choose myself and my needs first.
For me, those years were spent searching for connection, meaning, and trying to make sense of how I fit into the world. Being loved by someone else felt like a compass. And not to say that I went "looking for love in all the wrong places" but I certainly put myself in situations that created more heartache than it was worth. It wasn't until my early 30's that I was able to have an about-face with my relationship to love. If I wanted to be loved in the way that was good for me, I would have to first understand what was good for the version of myself that was buried inside of my body waiting to be uncovered. Being adopted, I had learned early on how to exist in service to others above any of my own needs. I carried that same shape-shifting into relationships, molding myself into what I thought would make someone see the version of me that they wanted to see. But being chosen for a version of me that wasn't fully me never felt right or good, and it was a pattern I knew I needed to break.
I remember, almost as visceral as my Valentine's Day with David, being at my friend's apartment in 2017 and crying about someone who I was on and off again with. I felt out of control, silly for crying about a stupid boy, and heartbroken. Sitting on their roof on a bright summer day, talking through sobs with my friend and her boyfriend, they reminded me that this wasn't what love was supposed to feel like. Desperate to stop feeling those same bad feelings over and over again, I went home that night, made a list of everything I needed in a partner to feel loved in the truest sense, and made a promise to myself to stick to it. Six months later I met my now husband.
Of course this was bigger than just making a list, it was really about deciding to discover and center my own needs. To say no to tempting ideas of love and to wait for what actually felt right for me. During this time I did a lot of activities by myself. I went to movies and concerts solo. I walked into restaurants at dinner time and awkwardly said, "Just one!" I meandered through Prospect Park on Saturday mornings with just me, myself, and I. Taking the time to be alone and in my own company was a practice in learning about the type of love that I wanted from someone else.
Like the beginning of a new relationship, there were lots of moments when this time by myself felt awkward. Creating the space to discover and reconnect with the core of my being without the distractions of others was like training a muscle that I hadn't worked in a long time. And as that muscle strengthened, so did the love and respect that I had for myself. I started caring less about what people thought, especially men who I was going on dates with. I felt, for the first time, okay with someone not liking or loving me—because the person who mattered most, me, did.
Spending time alone helped me learn to get to know my needs, but going to therapy during this chapter taught me that the only validation I truly needed was my own. I realized how much of my life had been spent waiting—waiting for acceptance, for permission, for someone else to tell me I was enough. But when I shifted to a place where my own acceptance mattered most, something visceral changed within me. Doing "the work" gave me a gift of unearthing the parts of myself that I felt that I had to tuck away to be palatable (and dare I say, interesting?). Even stupid things like loving a Top 40 bop and reality TV. Or being a hopeful optimist. I let go of the need to put on an air of nonchalance in most aspects of life, because the core of who I am is a wear-your-heart-on-your-sleeve kind of girl and being that kind of person is very chalant.
Reflecting on all of this while celebrating Valentine's Day with a young daughter brings a lot of desire (and pressure!) to continue to live these lessons out loud. To model what it looks like to love myself first, even in the context of a family. To feel confident in my needs and unabashed about the things I like. I want her to have memories of be being a peaceful, free, loving, and happy woman.
I watch my daughter bang on her xylophone while belting out "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" from the top of her lungs with zero hint of self-consciousness. I see her run into a crowd of kids at a playspace and dive right into the mix. I desperately hope that the freedom that she feels in her body and soul stays with her forever; that it is always her guide to inner and outer love.
Sending all the inner and out love your way, friends. Happy Valentine’s Day. Here’s a playlist that I hope makes you feel loved.
<3 Meghan