I thought love was something I had to prove I deserved. I didn’t realize it was an endless assignment. I kept carrying more water, hoping that eventually I would have poured enough into someone else to finally receive the love I was trying so desperately to earn. But I was asking someone for water when they were thirsty too.

Now I understand: someone else’s inability to hold what I offer does not determine its value. I don’t have to pour myself empty to prove that I am lovable. I am worthy before I ever pour a drop.

For a long time, I thought love meant carrying more.

Understanding more.
Forgiving more.
Trying harder.
Stepping in before someone fell.

But somewhere along the way, I learned that love and rescue are not the same thing.

Rescue says, “You cannot do this without me.”

Love says, “I believe you can.”

I can offer a hand, a light, a truth, a boundary, a place to rest. But I cannot do someone else’s becoming for them.

I want to be the lighthouse now.

Steady.
Rooted.
Bright enough to help someone find their way.

But still trusting them to steer.

I spent years wondering why I had to carry everything alone without realizing I was standing at the door of my own life checking everyone’s credentials before I’d let them help carry a box. Nobody was qualified—because the qualification was: Do it exactly like Jasmine. And there was already a Jasmine. She was exhausted.

I used to think I wanted to be the most talented person in the room because I was competitive. The deeper truth was harder to admit: ordinary me didn’t always feel safe enough. Somewhere along the way, I learned to believe that if I could become useful enough, impressive enough, hardworking enough, creative enough, maybe I would become harder to leave. But love was never supposed to be a performance review. I am learning that I don’t have to become extraordinary to be worthy of ordinary love.

For years, I thought winning meant finally being chosen by the person who once rejected me. Then I asked myself a question that changed everything: What exactly was I trying to win? I didn’t want the chaos, betrayal, anxiety, or life that came with the supposed prize. Somewhere along the way, I had already won—I just hadn’t looked around long enough to notice. The life I created is the prize. The woman I became is the prize. I walked myself home.

What if the conversations happening inside us and the conversations happening between us are more alike than we realize? This reflection explores a simple but transformative idea: beneath our different histories, personalities, and nervous systems, awareness is always meeting awareness—and recognizing that changes the way we relate to ourselves and one another.