Love Didn’t Hurt Me—This Time, It Healed Me

Fourteen years ago, I married a man who never once raised his voice at me. And every day since, I’ve learned that real love isn’t loud—it’s steady, patient, and kind. But before him, I thought love meant pain.

There was a time in my life when I thought love meant pain. That it came with fear, walking on eggshells, and wondering what version of the person you’d get that day. I learned early on that sometimes the ones who say they love you are the ones who break you the worst—and convince you it was your fault all along.

My first marriage was like that. The damage didn’t start with fists—it started with words. With silence. With slow erosion of who I was until I became someone who apologized for breathing too loudly. When the violence came, I was already trained to believe I deserved it. That if I had just been better, kinder, quieter, maybe he wouldn’t have been so angry.
That’s how they get you.
And for a long time, I thought maybe love was supposed to feel that way.

Let Me Tell You Something About That First Hit:

• The bruises heal.

• The words echo.

• But the first betrayal? The one where I was made to believe my soul caused the violence?
  That one tries to linger. It tries to become part of you.

But it’s not part of me anymore. That shame? That doubt? That soft voice that says, “maybe it’s still true”?

It can go.
Right now.
You can have it back.

And even though I was able to leave him, and start a new life, what I had learned from that relationship really had shaped me more than I realized. I was determined I’d never let another man close. And for almost 14 years, I didn’t. For a while it was from fear that I stayed alone, and then it was because I wanted to grow into a different woman, a better version of myself, but still alone.

But then… something changed.

That core wound, the one that said—“I am not worth loving. I cause pain. I am too much.”
It tried to break me, to silence me, and yet… here I am. Still loving. Still protecting. Still fighting.

And then…

Fourteen years ago, I met and married a different kind of man. A quiet man. A steady man. A man who never once, in over a decade, has raised his voice at me—not in anger, not in frustration, not ever. We’ve never fought. Not because life has been easy—but because we chose peace.
He loves me gently. Patiently. Without conditions.
And sometimes, even now, I look at him and wonder if I’m dreaming.

It took me years to stop flinching when I heard a sudden noise. To stop expecting anger when I made a mistake. To believe that I was worth loving—not for what I did, but for who I am.
He never asked me to earn it.
He just gave it freely.
And little by little, it began to heal me.

Healing didn’t happen all at once. But it began the moment I realized I was safe. And every day since has been proof that love doesn’t hurt—it holds.

Real love doesn’t hurt.
Real love doesn’t confuse.
Real love doesn’t make you shrink.

Real love says: “You’re safe now.”

So if you're reading this, and you're still waiting, still wondering if the pain will ever stop, if you’ll ever be loved without being torn down—I was you. I am you.
And I’m telling you now: it’s not too late.
There is love that heals.
And you are worthy of it.
You always were.

If you’re reading this and wondering if you’ll ever be loved without pain—I was you. And I’m telling you: it’s not too late. Gentle love is real. And you are worthy of it. You always were.

This is what love was always meant to be. And if you haven’t found it yet, don’t give up. The kind of love that heals—not wounds—is still out there. And you are not too broken to receive it.