. . .

There’s a reason so many of us are drawn to old movies and nostalgic music that transport us to the so-called “better days.” We catch ourselves saying things like, “They just don’t make them like this anymore.” There’s something about the past — the way it lingers, the way it aches — that pulls at us in ways the modern world simply can’t replicate. And I think love is at the core of that longing. Because we miss a kind of love that wasn’t afraid to be bold, intentional, or all-consuming. A love that wasn’t defined by ambiguity or fear of vulnerability, but by grand gestures, handwritten letters, and unflinching loyalty.

Back then, there were no dating apps, just serendipity. Love wasn’t swiped for; it was stumbled into. Modern society tells us “less is more” when it comes to emotional expression, that restraint is admirable, vulnerability is weakness, and caring too much makes you naive. So, we bite our tongue and play it cool, hoping it will lead to something lasting, only to find ourselves right back where we started. But what if it is this very mindset that keeps us disconnected? Disconnected from the very love we’re longing for, from the intimacy we claim to crave, and from the people who might actually be willing to meet us there.

I find it funny how so many lonely people complain about being alone, yet won’t dare reach out to their neighbor. How so many crave the very love they’re afraid to let in. It’s as if the more convenient our gadgets become, the more detached and emotionally unavailable we allow ourselves to be, as we mistake constant access for genuine intimacy.

Loving loudly may not guarantee happy endings, but it most certainly will guarantee truth and the absence of regret. It’s not the act of love we fear, after all, but the possibility of being hurt. Yet playing small doesn’t prevent pain; it only postpones it. And we weren’t made to live small.

When we love loudly, it creates a ripple effect. It shows others that it’s not only okay to love, but it’s healing. It opens the door for others to feel safe doing the same. Is love not the very purpose of our existence? And if so, why do we treat it like a gamble instead of a gift? Why do we ration it, calculate it, and run from it when it knocks? Why do we make excuses for why we can’t show up, saying the timing isn’t right or the circumstances aren’t perfect, as if love is something we can pencil in when life finally calms down?

Maybe the question isn’t why love hurts, but why we think we can outrun the pain by pretending we don’t care. Maybe the answer isn’t in guarding our hearts, but in giving them away wisely and fully. Because what a shame it would be to get to the end of this wild, short life and realize we never really let ourselves be seen. That we never really let it in.

We don’t need more perfectly timed texts or algorithm-approved matches. We need more people willing to say, “I care about you,” and mean it. We need more people willing to risk the awkward, the honest, the vulnerable, in the name of something real. And I’m not just talking about romantic love either. I’m talking about every shade of love that exists between two people: the quiet loyalty of friendship, the fierce protectiveness of family, the tender connections that form in unexpected places. Love that shows up, speaks up, and sticks around. That’s what we need more of.

So, love loudly. Love messily. Love like the movies that still make your chest throb. Even if it scares you. Even if it ends. Because loving out loud is never a waste. It’s a declaration: I was here, and I felt deeply, and I didn’t let the world harden me. And that? That’s the kind of love that echoes, long after it’s gone.

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Photo by Janay Peters on Unsplash

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