Dear Love,

Dear Love

by Ty.

Dear Love,

I’m tired.

Not just tired in the body — tired in the soul. The kind of tired that doesn’t fade after a nap or a weekend off. It’s the kind that comes from carrying too much for too long, from holding pain you never asked for, from trying to turn hurt into hope and somehow still show up like everything’s fine.

You’ve been with me a long time, though I didn’t always recognize you. You weren’t the fairytale version people talk about. You were rough. Unforgiving. You were lessons wrapped in loss. You were the thing that hurt the most but somehow kept me alive.

When my mom was taken from me, you disappeared with her. Foster care was supposed to be protection, but most days it felt like punishment. I learned early that people leave, that promises break, and that love — if it existed — wasn’t meant for kids like me. The homes changed, the rules changed, the faces changed. And every time I started to trust, it fell apart again.

That’s where my idea of love got twisted — in those early years. I mistook attention for care. I confused chaos for connection. I got attached fast and lost even faster. Every goodbye carved a new scar. Every betrayal taught me to love quieter, to love less, or not at all.

Then I lost my brother. I still don’t know if I’ve ever really grieved that. Some days it hits me out of nowhere — the sound of his laugh, the way he’d tell me to keep my head up when life was wild. And I’ve buried more friends than I ever should have. Brothers from the block. Brothers from the military. People who didn’t get the chance to find peace in this world. Every funeral changed me. Every casket reminded me that love doesn’t promise forever — it just gives you moments, and you better not waste them.

The military taught me discipline, sure. But it also taught me how to hide. How to function through pain. How to smile through grief. You can’t break down in that life — you just patch the cracks and keep marching. I learned how to lead, how to survive, but not how to feel. Not how to let people close.

Then came relationships — some good, some that left me bleeding in ways I didn’t even understand until years later. I’ve loved people who tried to fix me, and people I tried to fix. I’ve stayed too long, left too soon, and messed up things I should’ve protected. But through all of it, you kept showing up — not in perfection, but in pieces.

Somewhere along the line, I went back to school. Got degrees. Chased that terminal title like it would cure the ache. I thought if I became “somebody,” the emptiness would stop echoing. But love, you don’t work like that. You can’t be earned with diplomas or ranks or credentials. You can’t be proven with success. You either grow it, or you don’t.

Now, I’m older. Maybe a little wiser. Still scarred, still healing, still figuring out how to carry the weight without letting it crush me. And you — you’re still here.

You show up in small things now. In my wife’s quiet strength when I can’t find words. In my kid’s laughter that reminds me joy still exists. In the peace that comes when I stop running from my own story. You show up in the forgiveness I’ve had to give to people who’ll never say sorry, and in the forgiveness I’ve had to give myself for the ways I’ve failed.

You’ve been my hardest teacher. You’ve stripped me down and forced me to face everything I didn’t want to. But you also rebuilt me with softer hands. You taught me that love isn’t about never breaking — it’s about learning how to rebuild with grace.

I still miss my brother. I still think about my friends. I still carry the ghosts of those who couldn’t make it this far. But I honor them by loving deeper — not perfectly, but honestly. Because love, after everything, you’re still the only thing that makes life worth the mess.

You’re what keeps me going when the world feels too heavy. You’re the reason I still believe that people — myself included — can change.

So yeah, I’m tired. But I’m grateful. Because through all of it, you never stopped showing up. And now I finally understand:

You weren’t the thing I lost.

You were the thing I was becoming.

…

With whatever strength I’ve got left,

Tyrone