A Black Girl Wrote This

I Thought Love Was Supposed to Hurt—This One Doesn’t, and That’s Terrifying

I am in a healthy relationship. The first healthy relationship of my life. And it is the most challenging relationship of my life. It’s the scariest thing I’ve ever done. That’s saying something.

Being a person raised on survival, and dating someone raised with genuine love and support, is like learning a language I was never taught but somehow expected to speak fluently.

It’s beautiful and disorienting. Soft and uncomfortable. It’s being loved in a way that doesn’t require struggle, and yet my body still braces for impact. It’s unlearning defense mechanisms I once called protection. It’s realizing that love isn’t supposed to be a battlefield, but some days, I still come armed.

My girlfriend, she moves differently than anyone I’ve ever loved. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t play games. She doesn’t love me through conditions or ultimatums or the expectation that I’ll prove I’m worthy. She loves me because she loves me, and for someone like me—someone who grew up equating love with endurance, with proving, with earning—this is foreign territory.

I catch myself waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the argument that escalates into distance. For the silent treatment, the cold shoulder, the love that comes and goes like a storm I have to weather. But her? She is steady. She’s patient. She holds space for me in ways that feel both comforting and terrifying because consistency was never something I was taught to trust.

And so, I wrestle with myself. With the instinct to push away when I feel too seen. With the urge to retreat into independence rather than lean into partnership. With the need to apologize for existing too loudly, for taking up space, for needing reassurance I was never given before.

I remember one night, we were on the phone, and I was quiet—too quiet. Not because I was upset, but because my mind was racing, convincing me that something had to be wrong. That she was mad. That I had done something, even if I didn’t know what. And so, I asked her, hesitantly, “Are you okay?” Expecting a pause, a shift in her tone, a sign that I was doing too much. But she just said, without hesitation, “Of course, I’m okay. Everything is fine.” No irritation. No accusation. Just certainty. And my body exhaled in a way I didn’t know it needed to. Because in my past, silence meant danger. Distance meant punishment. But with her, silence is just silence. A quiet moment doesn’t mean the beginning of the end. And love doesn’t disappear when I stop performing for it.

But that doesn’t mean the old habits disappear overnight. Healing is not a switch—it’s a process. In the beginning, when we had disagreements, my first instinct was to shut down, withdraw, and assume distance was coming. Because that’s what I knew. She had to remind me, over and over, that we talk through things. That space doesn’t mean abandonment. That love doesn’t mean constantly proving my worth. And I had to unlearn the idea that needing reassurance made me weak. I had to stop treating love like something that would expire if I wasn’t perfect.

What used to be a reflex—to shrink, to brace for impact, to expect love to be withdrawn at the first sign of imperfection—is now something I can recognize in myself. And when those moments come, I move differently. Or, I try to. Instead of pulling away, I can lean in. Instead of assuming the worst, I can ask for clarity. Instead of shutting down, I can let myself be seen. And allowing yourself to be seen, to be vulnerable with someone, its the hardest part. Because I am still learning, and she is still teaching me what safe love looks like. We are teaching each other what safe love looks like.

Loving her is the easiest and hardest thing I’ve ever done. Easy, because she makes it safe. Hard, because I’ve never had to navigate love without survival tactics. Because I was taught that love is something you prove, something you chase, something you endure. But she doesn’t need me to suffer for her love. She just needs me to be in it. To receive it.

And I am learning. I am softening. I am understanding that love isn’t something to endure—it’s something to experience, to hold, to be held in.

And for the first time in my life, I am being loved in a way that doesn’t hurt. That alone is the greatest challenge—and the greatest gift.

We deserve soft love.