To the One Who Learned to Feel Loved by Being Needed

Dear friend,

You thought being needed meant you were loved.
You thought being leaned on meant you were chosen.
You thought being essential meant being safe.

So you became the lighthouse.
Steady. Noble. Alone.

The one they ran to when the tides were high.
The one they cried to when they were drowning.
The one they warmed their hands over—but never stayed to tend.

And for a while, that felt like love.

Because when someone shivering reaches for you and your glow is the thing that thaws them—it feels like genuine connection.

But connection isn’t the same as reciprocity.
And being leaned on isn’t the same as being met.

No one asked what it cost to keep burning like that. No one stayed to carry the oil, clean the glass, trim the wick. They needed your light—but they never learned your heat.

Still, you stayed lit.
Not to prove your worth.
But because you are the worth.

Because your glow was never performance—it was pulse.
It was purpose. It was offering. And your body has always known the truth: Love is not earned.

Love does not arrive only when you’ve carried enough, fixed enough, proven enough.

Love does not measure your usefulness before it rests in your arms.

Your bones ache with this remembering. Your chest still holds the absence of truly being held. Your skin longs for warmth that comes toward you—not only warmth that takes from you.

Now—you are ready for something else. Something mutual. Something whole.

You are ready for the one who does not just come to be warmed—but comes to build heat with you.

The one who does not just visit when the sky is falling but stays to help you build the roof. The one who tends you—not just the light you carry.

Because even the fiercest fire dims without tending. Even the most radiant glow needs shelter from the wind. Even the lighthouse deserves to be lived in, not only leaned on.

This is your rupture.
Your reckoning.
Your holy reclamation.

Where love is no longer earned through sacrifice. Where usefulness is no longer confused with intimacy. Where devotion is no longer one-sided.

Real love anchors in the calm as much as in the storm. It waters the garden with you, sinks its hands in the soil beside you, and whispers: I’’m here. I’m not leaving.’

You don’t need another visitor. You need someone who knows how to stay. Who knows how to tend. Who knows how to gently touch what you ache to keep hidden—and still reaches for you.

You don’t need someone who admires your light from afar.
You need someone who strips down their armor, steps into your glow, and says: Let me burn with you.

Let this be our unlearning. Let this be your turning, and our remembering together—that love is not earned, but received. That your light was never conditional. That your body was always true.

In this next season of life, let your fire be met.

Let your needs be named. Genuinely listen to others’ needs too. And let the one who reaches for you come not because they are cold—but because they are finally ready to stay.

With love from my heart to yours,

Practice Postscript

Where the letter stops being read—and starts being lived.

The Reflection:

• Your body knows when love is true. The next time your chest tightens with the old reflex to give more than you have, pause.

• Place your hand on your sternum. Feel the rise and fall. Whisper to your littlest self: “I do not have to earn this.”

• When your jaw clenches with the instinct to prove your worth, soften it.

• Breathe slowly until your shoulders naturally drop. Ask yourself softly: What part of me is still waiting to be chosen? Can I choose them now?

The Practice:

• When someone reaches for you—listen to your body first. Does your belly expand in ease or contract in protection?

• Does your skin lean toward or away? Trust this. Your body has always been telling the truth.

• Allow this be your practice:

  • To notice. To name. To stay.

  • To no longer abandon your body for the hope of being loved.

  • To stay with all of yourself so you can welcome only those who know how to stay too.

• Because you were never meant to be loved for your usefulness. You were meant to be loved for your life.

Living in the Questions:

• Where have you mistaken being leaned on for being truly loved?

• Where have you allowed devotion to become depletion?

• Who in your life actually tends to your glow—not just benefits from it?