The Shape My Joy Takes VIII: The Way Love Moves Through My Life Now

This is a collection of essays not about surviving—but about living. Not about pain—but about presence. These are not reactionary—they are revolutionary in their refusal to look back.

This is a 10-part series of personal essays. Check back each day to read the next essay.

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It doesn’t arrive in fireworks anymore.
It doesn’t roar through the door, wild and breathless, promising forever in shaky hands.

No—love moves differently now.

It lives in the way the kettle is already boiling before I ask.
In the way he knows how I like my tea—no questions, no fuss, just the right mug, just the right amount of quiet.

It’s in the way the dog curls herself against me like a second heartbeat, sighing so deeply it pulls something sacred from my chest.
In the way the cat blinks slowly at me from across the room, like she knows I finally stopped needing to be rescued.

Love lives in the kitchen.
Not just in the meals, but in the music playing while we cook.
In the easy rhythm of hands working side by side.
In the laughter that rises when I burn the toast again and he doesn’t tease—just pops in a new slice and kisses my cheek.

It’s in the way we move through the day like a dance neither of us rehearsed but both of us know by heart.

Love lives in the routines now.
In the way we say “home” and mean each other.
In the way I text him just to say I’m thinking of him, even though we’ll see each other in an hour.
In the way we laugh about things no one else would understand—our own language made of glances and half-sentences and twenty inside jokes.

It lives in the garden, in the patience it takes to grow something.
In the dirt under my nails.
In the way I whisper to the basil like it matters—because it does.

It lives in Sunday mornings, slow and honeyed, with bare feet on hardwood floors and the scent of lemon in the air.
In shared silence.
In soft blankets and old records and not needing to fill the space to feel full.

Love isn’t chaos anymore.

It’s not the ache of wondering.
It’s not the thrill of being chosen, then questioned, then chased, then discarded.

It’s not waiting by the phone.
It’s not crying in the bathroom.
It’s not begging to be understood.

Love now is a quiet certainty.
A warmth that doesn’t demand but gives.
A soft light that stays on, even when the rest of the world goes dark.

It’s in my voice when I speak kindly to myself.
In the way I honour what I need.
In the way I let myself rest, dream, begin again.

Love doesn’t shout in my life anymore.
It doesn’t need to.

It hums.
It glows.
It lingers in the corners, in the soil, in the stillness.
It moves gently, but it moves through everything.

And I, at last, am brave enough to stay still long enough to feel it.