More Than February 14

Happy Valentine’s Day.

To the believers in spectacle.

In long-stemmed roses

wrapped in cellophane.

In red and pink

confetti love.

In helium balloons

floating toward the ceiling—

like promises

that don’t yet know gravity.

This day

is for you.

For the candlelight reservations.

For the chocolate kisses

melting soft

between laughter

and linen napkins.

For the teddy bears

bigger than the ache

you hope

they cover.

I am not against it.

I am a woman

who has learned

that love

is not only a holiday.

It is not only a caption.

Not only a box

tied in satin ribbon.

Love is patient—

the kind that waits with you

in hospital rooms

and hard seasons.

Love is kind—

the kind that braids your hair

when your hands are tired,

that warms a plate

before placing it down,

that says,

Rest.

I’ve got this.

Love is not boastful.

It does not shout

from rooftops

if it cannot whisper truth

in the kitchen

at midnight.

Love is every day.

It is showing up

when the lights are off

and the bills are due.

It is forgiveness

that tastes like salt

but still says—

Stay.

It is boundaries

drawn in chalk

that say,

I choose myself too.

It is the quiet strength

of our mothers

who loved us

with cracked hands

and steady backs.

It is the softness

we learned

after surviving

what tried to harden us.

So yes—

keep your roses.

Your hearts.

Your candlelit dinners.

But know this:

love

is in the ordinary.

In the morning coffee

poured without asking.

In the prayer whispered

over sleeping children.

In the text that says:

Made it home safe.

Love is not

a single day

dressed in red.

It is breath.

It is choice.

It is daily bread.

And I celebrate that—

every sunrise,

every ordinary day,

every time I decide

to love

on purpose.