True healing, I found, requires a movement of the soul—a rekindling of the inner will. It’s why we have physical therapy, why we cheer for babies taking their first steps, and why my role as a caregiver was never about replacing someone’s strength but supporting them in rediscovering it. Life, at its essence, is motion. To be alive is to move, and to love is to be willing to flow with that eternal movement.
One day, while assisting a man who had lost the use of his legs, I felt the weight of this truth settle deeply within me. As he struggled to rise, his frustration was palpable. I offered him my hand, a steadying touch, and a silent encouragement that he could find his strength again. In his eyes, a blend of determination and despair, I saw a reflection of myself. Just as he was fighting to stand, I realized I was also learning to let my own heart move—toward love, toward life, toward the unknown.
In that moment, something shifted within me. I understood that love is not a stagnant feeling but a dynamic force, ever-flowing like the tides of the ocean. Just as I would be willing to bathe a patient who needed my help, I knew I would one day be ready to care for the one who truly cherished being in my presence. It wasn’t just about being a caregiver anymore—it was about recognizing a deeper willingness to be there for someone who loved me as I loved them.
And that realization felt like standing on the edge of an endless ocean, watching the waves roll out and knowing, with absolute certainty, that they would always return. Love, I realized, is like these waves: it flows outward, moves away, but always comes back. It is this eternal motion that connects us to something greater than ourselves. It’s not about clinging or holding on—it’s about trusting in the flow, in the return.
I imagined this kind of love, one that is effortless and eternal. A love where the joy lies not in what we can do for each other, but simply in the act of being together. This love understands eternity, not as a stretch of endless time, but as an ongoing, ever-present connection. It is a love that isn’t afraid to release its grip, knowing that true love always returns—just as the ocean waves inevitably kiss the shore.
In my caregiving, I began to see a reflection of the love I yearned for. The patience I showed to my patients, the gentle encouragement to help them find their own strength, became a mirror of the patience I now hold for this kind of love. I don’t rush it. I don’t force it. I let it move naturally, trusting that when it comes, it will be like a child’s first steps—delicate yet unstoppable, vulnerable yet full of promise.
And when that love comes, I know I’ll be ready. Ready to bathe the one I love, to hold them tenderly, to care for them in every way. Not out of duty or obligation, but out of the sheer joy of expressing eternity together. I envision us simply being—two souls in motion, flowing with the rhythm of the universe, expressing love in each shared moment.
For I have come to understand that true love is not about how we hold on to one another, but how we let each other be. It’s in the gentle letting go, the willingness to witness another’s strength emerge, and the quiet confidence that the waves will always return to the shore.
This is the love I dream of, the love I wait for: a love that expresses eternity, over and over again, in every embrace, in every shared silence, in every tear wiped away. A love that, like the ocean, never stops moving, never stops returning, and never stops loving.
And so, I wait. Ready, patient, with an open heart—trusting in the infinite motion of love.
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