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I grew up in a house where love was loud—voices raised in anger, words used as weapons. It was the kind of place where silence was more dangerous than noise, where affection came with conditions and the line between love and control was blurred. I learned early on that love meant chaos, and that chaos was normal. As I grew older, I found myself drawn to the same kind of love I’d known intense, consuming, and toxic. I fell for people who treated me the way I had been treated, thinking that this was how love was supposed to feel. I mistook possessiveness for passion, manipulation for care. I craved the highs and lows, the drama, the rush—because that’s what love was to me. Or so I thought.But somewhere along the way, something shifted. I started to see the patterns, to recognize the red flags for what they were. I realized that love didn’t have to hurt, that it wasn’t supposed to leave me feeling empty or lost. I began to understand that the love I deserved was different from the love I had always known.It wasn’t easy, but I started to find myself. I learned to set boundaries, to say no, to walk away from relationships that were unhealthy. I discovered that real love is steady and kind, not something that tears you apart. And in finding myself, I found a love that was gentle and true—starting with the love I gave to me.