Forever and Always

I was listening to a love song.

One of those songs that is supposed to be about someone else.

A partner.
A soulmate.
A forever person.

The kind of song where you picture somebody’s face and imagine a love that lasts through every season.

And somewhere along the way, I realized I was not singing it to anyone outside of me.

I was singing it to myself.

At the top of my lungs.

Dancing.

Smiling.

Tearing up.

And thinking:

I’m gonna keep myself forever and always.

That sentence landed differently than any love lyric ever has.

Because for so much of my life, forever was something I hoped another person would promise me.

Stay with me.

Choose me.

See me.

Love me enough not to leave.

Love me enough not to betray me.

Love me enough not to make me prove over and over that I am worthy of being kept.

I spent years looking outward for permanence.

As if another person’s decision to stay could finally make me feel safe inside myself.

But the song did not change.

The direction of the love did.

And maybe that is one of the clearest signs of healing I have ever experienced.

I am not imagining someone else when I sing about forever anymore.

I am imagining me.

I am singing:

I will keep you.

I will wake up with you.

I will live with you.

I will carry you through every season.

I cannot wait to see your sweet face in the morning.

And yes, I mean my own.

That still makes me emotional.

Because there is something almost unbearably tender about realizing that the one relationship I am guaranteed to inhabit for my entire life is the relationship with myself.

I have always been here.

I was there when I was little.

Little Jasmine, learning too early that the world could be unsafe.

I was there when I was a teenager, trying to become someone before I even understood who I was.

I was there at the bander, bent over a computer, trying to hide tears and bruises.

I was there when my mind felt hijacked by a relationship that had trained my nervous system to orbit another person.

I was there when I could not stop scanning, waiting, hoping, searching for the next clue.

I was there when I started healing.

I was there when I learned to breathe through the panic.

I was there when I started noticing my own thoughts instead of obeying every one of them.

I was there when I finally said:

I protect Jas now.

I was there when I got my own home.

I was there when I planted the garden late in the season anyway.

I was there when I sat in the backyard watching my boys play soccer while Pobby ran around in useless little circles, convinced he was part of the team.

I was there when I cried because peace had finally become real enough for my body to recognize it.

I was there when I made tea towels.

When I dreamed about craft gatherings.

When I started building Wildflower Whimsy.

When I realized that maybe my life was not supposed to remain one long recovery story.

When I finally started asking:

What do I want to create now?

Through every version of me, there was one person who never actually left.

Me.

Even when I abandoned my own needs.

Even when I ignored my body.

Even when I overgave.

Even when I tried to earn love by carrying too much.

Even when I made myself small enough to remain in places that hurt me.

I was still in there.

Waiting.

And maybe that is why this moment feels so different.

I am not finally learning that I am enough because somebody else confirmed it.

I am learning that I am somebody I genuinely want to spend a lifetime with.

That is a whole other kind of love.

It is not:

I do not need anyone.

I still love people.

I still want connection.

I still want friendship, family, community, laughter, affection, intimacy, and all the beautiful things humans give one another.

But I no longer need another person to complete the sentence:

I am loved.

Because I am in a loving relationship with myself now.

And that changes the way every other relationship has to enter my life.

You cannot ask me to abandon myself in order to keep you.

You cannot ask me to betray my own knowing so that you can remain comfortable.

You cannot make me prove my worth through exhaustion.

You cannot use my softness as unlimited access.

You cannot make me disappear inside your needs and call it love.

Because there are two people in every relationship I enter now.

You.

And me.

And I am no longer willing to sacrifice one of them.

Especially not me.

That may be the real meaning of forever and always for me now.

Not permanence with another person.

Permanence with myself.

No matter who comes.

No matter who goes.

No matter what chapter ends.

No matter what dream changes.

No matter how old I become.

I remain.

And I want to remain lovingly.

That is the difference.

I do not want to merely tolerate myself for the rest of my life.

I want to enjoy her.

I want to make her coffee.

I want to let her rest.

I want to buy her flowers.

I want to put her creations on the refrigerator and tell her how proud I am.

I want to take her seriously when she is tired.

I want to protect her when something feels wrong.

I want to make her laugh.

I want to let her be ridiculous.

I want to let her wear the dress.

Plant the flowers.

Make the magnets.

Write the chapter.

Sing too loudly in the car.

Cry because a school bus is full of somebody’s babies.

Cheer for the Chihuahua’s self-esteem.

Live.

I want to live with her.

Not manage her.

Not fix her.

Not constantly improve her.

Live with her.

There is something almost funny about how long I spent trying to find my forever person.

All that searching.

All that longing.

All that trying to understand cosmic connections.

All that wondering who belonged beside me.

And somehow the deepest forever relationship was so close that I could not see it.

It was the woman looking through my eyes.

The woman brushing my teeth.

The woman driving to work.

The woman lying down at night.

The woman who wakes up every morning and gets another chance to choose how she will treat herself.

Her.

Jasmine.

That is my girl.

And the thought of waking up tomorrow and seeing her sweet face in the mirror genuinely makes me smile.

Not because she is perfect.

Not because she is finished.

Not because she will never cry again.

Because she is mine.

And I am hers.

I know her history now.

I know how hard she fought.

I know how much she carried.

I know every time she overgave.

I know every time she stayed too long.

I know every time she tried again.

I know every time she broke.

I know every time she rebuilt.

I know the woman she became.

And I love her.

Not as an affirmation I am trying desperately to believe.

As recognition.

That feels important.

For years, I was asking another person:

Will you stay?

And now I finally have an answer.

Yes.

I will stay.

When you are joyful, I will stay.

When you are grieving, I will stay.

When you are messy, I will stay.

When you are embarrassed, I will stay.

When you make a mistake, I will stay.

When you are tired, I will stay.

When you are strong, I will stay.

When you are scared, I will stay.

When you are old, I will stay.

I am not leaving you again.

That may be the most sacred promise I have ever made.

And maybe this is what inner union actually feels like.

Not fireworks.

Not some mystical moment where I transcend being human.

Not the arrival of a person who finally makes me whole.

Just this quiet certainty:

I belong to myself.

I can love without disappearing.

I can attach without abandoning myself.

I can receive without earning it through suffering.

I can be alone without being abandoned.

I can be with someone without handing them custody of my worth.

And I can sing a love song without needing another face in my mind.

Because I already know who it is for.

It is for the little girl.

The teenager.

The exhausted factory worker.

The heartbroken woman.

The mother.

The gardener.

The writer.

The maker.

The woman sitting in her own home realizing she survived long enough to become safe inside herself.

It is for every Jasmine I have ever been.

And every Jasmine I have not met yet.

I am going to keep her.

Forever and always. ❤️

Closing Reflection

Think about the promises you have spent your life hoping someone else would make to you.

Stay.
Choose me.
See me.
Be gentle with me.
Do not leave when things get hard.

Now ask yourself:

Which of those promises can I begin making to myself?

Self-love is not only liking what you see in the mirror. It is becoming someone you can trust to remain.

It is listening when you are tired.
Protecting yourself when something feels wrong.
Forgiving yourself when you make a mistake.
Allowing joy without requiring perfection first.

You will spend your entire life in your own company.

What would change if that stopped feeling like something to tolerate and started feeling like a relationship worth tending?

Maybe forever and always was never only something another person could promise you.

Maybe it begins with:

I am here. I am staying. I will not abandon myself again.