People often talk about love as if it’s a feeling—something that arrives unexpectedly and carries us effortlessly through life. But love, as I came to understand it, is not sustained by feeling alone. Love is a choice. One that must be made again and again, especially when the feeling is buried beneath exhaustion, grief, and fear.
When Brian became ill, the love story I thought I was living shattered into something unrecognizable. The dreams we had built—music, travel, possibility—didn’t disappear, but they transformed. Suddenly, love was no longer candlelit dinners or long conversations. Love became feeding, bathing, lifting, advocating, and waiting. Love became learning how to communicate without words. Love became patience when frustration would have been easier.
There were days when I didn’t feel strong. Days when grief sat beside me like an unwanted companion. Days when I questioned how much more I could carry. But even then, love remained—not as a romantic ideal, but as a quiet, steady commitment. Love showed up in the smallest acts: holding his hand, adjusting a pillow, celebrating a good day, enduring a bad one.
What I learned is this: love isn’t proven in the moments when everything is easy. Love is proven when staying would be harder than leaving—and you stay anyway.
Our culture celebrates beginnings: falling in love, weddings, grand gestures. We don’t talk enough about endurance. About devotion that doesn’t photograph well. About faithfulness that looks like sacrifice instead of sparkle. And yet, this is where love becomes most honest.
I didn’t choose the path we were given. But I chose Brian. Every day. And in doing so, I learned that love’s greatest power is not how it makes us feel—but how it teaches us who we are capable of becoming.