From a young age, I’ve always been a big fan of Valentine’s Day. I still don’t know where my infatuation with the holiday began, but I was in love with everything about it. The colors, the candy, the ambition, the nervous excitement in the air, everything was so whimsical and almost magical to me.
In elementary school, waking up on Valentine’s Day felt like Christmas morning. The moment I opened my eyes, I’d run to my dresser and pick out an outfit—usually all red, all pink, or a combination of both. I had this distinct black shirt for a few years, adorned with a pink and red sequin heart in the center, that I loved to wear. From my room, I’d head into the bathroom and put nearly every pink bow and ribbon I could find in my hair. My hairstyle was an intricate mix of sparkly beaded ponytails, long pink ribbons, pink hair extensions, and maybe a feather or two. My head practically resembled the Valentine’s Day section at Claire’s. Sometimes, I’d spend so long on my hair that I’d cry if it didn’t turn out perfectly—a common experience for overly ambitious little girls.
Preparing for Valentine’s Day was elaborate and exciting as well. I remember decorating old shoeboxes to collect valentines from classmates, putting all my effort into gluing, cutting, glittering, drawing, and painting my box unique to my personality. I would stay up for hours perfecting my design and writing personalized messages on the tiny cards for each of my classmates. I lived to see their reactions as they opened them.
By the time I got to school, I was so anxiety-ridden from the anticipation. I’d restlessly wait all day until the teachers let us pass out our notes and candy. I obsessed over the messages I gave and received—especially from the alternating class crush. The activity was a whirlwind, filling me with both anxiety and excitement. I practically skipped around the classroom, placing my handwritten valentines in each classmate’s box.
Looking back, I think I was drawn to Valentine’s Day because, for me, love always felt like something just out of reach. At age seven, my parents went through a messy divorce, leaving my home life filled with tension, arguments, and the constant feeling that another petty battle was just around the corner. Other than the Disney movies and Barbie fairytales, I didn’t have a whole lot of representation of real-world love in my life. Love to me was always this fairytale thing, something that was so magical and grandiose. I remember finding comfort and representation in the lost princess who needed saving, and I longed to be whisked away by that type of love—and the handsome prince that came with it.
In second grade, I had my first “boyfriend.” His name was Andrew, and by elementary standards, he was everything a 7-year-old could want in a boyfriend. He was cute, and he was nice, and he wrote me a poorly-spelled love letter in first grade—which in hindsight, is more effort than any of my real relationships have ever given. However, it didn’t end with Andrew. I had a new “boyfriend” almost every school year, up until about 6th grade. I was always with a new beau. Kissing Nicholas under the reading table in third grade, kissing Dillon at the playground in third grade, flirting with Logan in fourth grade, and quick fling with Quentin in sixth. Looking back, my elementary school love life was impressive.
Although my elementary school love life was astonishing—I’m not bragging—I often reminisce on the way I perceived love as a young child. I wanted to be loved so badly that I searched for it in everyone around me. I was whimsical and naive, but I was abundant and flourished in my deep feelings for others. I also had a desire to love others in the way that I simultaneously wished to be loved . I was devoted to making other people feel special and making sure they knew they were religiously loved by me.
I found comfort in loving others because, to me, love had no boundaries. I didn’t know what love truly was, how to find it, or what I was doing, but I knew that I felt it. Love kept me going through times when life was desolate, ugly, and cruel. Love had no rights, no wrongs, no wins, no losses, no resentment, and no justice. Love was pure and it was my guiding light.
Even now, my friends call me out for falling in love with the most heinous situations, baffled by my ability to find beauty in the ugliness. But that’s just how I am. I let love lead me, and because of that, I don’t engage in the petty battles my parents exemplified. I am not losing a war by calling my ex when I miss him, I’m not giving up when I choose to not clap back at people who hurt me. I am not hostile by communicating my feelings, and I am not stuck up for sharing the truth of my experiences with others. I am not too much by openly showcasing my personality, and I am most definitely not delusional for staying in a toxic relationship even when it was slowly killing me.
As the great Taylor Swift once said: “F*ck it, I was in love.” We fall in love with people, with things, with experiences, with dreams, and with ourselves. Love comes in many forms, and ultimately, love is misunderstood because it simply cannot be understood. Love is irrational and illegitimate, and it is passionate and fragile. Love has a complexity that we could never comprehend—only one we can feel.
I think I love Valentine’s Day not because of the candy or the excitement or the romance. I love it because it celebrates people like me—the ones who wear their hearts on their sleeves, who risk getting hurt, who believe in love even when the world tells them not to. Valentine’s Day is a reminder that love, in all its messy, complicated, beautiful forms, is worth holding on to. Valentine’s Day signifies the importance of keeping love in our lives, sharing it with other people, and ultimately letting it become absorbed by the world around us.
Because love makes us human, and we should be proud to share it with the world, even if the risk is greater than the reward.