I could never bring myself to hate those who have passed through my life, for to do so would be to strip away parts of myself. I am built from every hand that has held mine, every voice that has spoken my name, every laugh that has risen beside me. No one moves through this world untouched—we take in pieces of each other, carrying them forward in ways seen and unseen. Love is not merely something that happens to us; it is the force that shapes us, the imprint left behind long after presence fades
Look at me closely, and you will see them all. The way I tuck my hair behind my ear, the way I bite my lip when I think, the way I soften my voice when someone is hurting—all borrowed, all inherited from the people I have loved. Some pieces were given gently, others pressed into me with the weight of pain, but they are mine now. That is what it means to connect—to exchange pieces of yourself until you no longer know where you end and another begins.
This is not poetry; this is biology. Humans are wired to reflect one another. Our nervous systems synchronize when we hold eye contact. Our hearts beat in time with those we care for. Mirror neurons ensure that we smile when others smile, that we flinch when they hurt. We are not meant to be separate. Even in solitude, we carry the bits of everyone we have ever held close.
This is the way it has always been. Since the beginning of time, survival depended on togetherness, on blending into a tribe, on attuning ourselves so deeply to others that their joy became ours, their sorrow a wound in our own chest. Love was never just a feeling; it was a way to stay alive. Our ancestors did not know loneliness the way we do now. They were part of something larger, something that pulsed with the rhythms of shared breath, of shared existence.
Even now, the past lingers in the way our bodies crave connection. Science tells us that a baby’s brain is shaped by the love it receives. That the absence of touch can weaken the heart. That a person who has lost someone they love will sometimes glimpse their face in a crowd, because the mind refuses to accept that love can ever truly disappear. And perhaps it does not. Perhaps love is nothing more than energy transferred, reshaped, continuing on in different forms.
Even my face is proof of love. The shape of my eyes, the slope of my nose—every feature is the result of countless generations of people finding one another, choosing one another, creating something new together. I do not simply exist because of biology; I exist because of love. Because two people met, and in some quiet, unspoken way, knew that they wanted to leave a piece of themselves behind.
And so, how could I ever hate those who have become part of me? Even those who hurt me, even those I had to walk away from—they remain in the way I move through the world. In the songs I cannot hear without remembering. In the lessons that made me wiser, stronger, softer. Love is not always kind, but it is always transformative.
Perhaps this is the only truth that matters: nothing is ever truly lost. People leave, but they do not disappear. They live on in the way you phrase your sentences, in the expressions you make without thinking. They become part of your inner monologue, part of the way you navigate the world. Love does not fade—it lingers, reshapes, settles into the marrow.
And so, I am not just myself. I am everyone I have ever loved. I am proof that they existed, that they mattered. And when I am gone, I will live on in the same way—in the way someone laughs, in the words they whisper to themselves when they think no one is listening.
Because to love is to become, and I have become so many.