I used to think love had to be loud to be real.

Not just loud in the obvious ways, but loud in every aspect of life – the kind of loud where passion meant shouting across a room, where every argument was explosive, and where chasing after someone for reassurance felt like the only way to keep them close. Love, in my mind, was supposed to shake you to your core, make your heart race in fear and desire all at once. It was the chaos, the drama, the ache of constantly feeling like you weren’t enough. Like no matter what you did, you’d always fall short. But if you hung in there, if you pushed through the doubt and the pain, maybe one day you’d finally be seen, finally be loved.

I know now that wasn’t love.

That was survival.

It was me, shrinking myself, folding pieces of who I was to fit into someone else’s idea of who I should be. It was me silencing parts of myself just to keep the peace, to avoid the explosions, to pretend that the emotional bruises were normal. It wasn’t love at all – it was a desperate attempt to hold on, even when I was breaking.

Looking back on that first long-term relationship, I realise just how much I had been convinced that walking on eggshells was just part of being loved. That being questioned constantly about my clothes, my friends, my whereabouts was just a twisted version of caring. That the way I was always sexualised – even when it made me feel small and uncomfortable – was somehow a sign I was wanted. That having to over-explain my actions after a night out wasn’t a problem, just “boys being boys”, it’s just how things were for girls like me.

But what it really was…was control.

Not the kind that slams doors or yells in your face, but the slow, quiet kind that chips away at your confidence until you don’t even recognise yourself anymore. The kind that makes you question every word you say, every choice you make. It’s the kind of control that turns your self-esteem into something you willingly hand over to someone else, just to keep the peace. Because the alternative – conflict, rejection, losing that “love” – feels scarier than losing yourself.

That version of me was quiet. Polite. Always apologising for speaking too loudly or taking up too much space. I was a master of people-pleasing, always trying to keep things smooth even when I was crumbling inside.

If I hadn’t gone through that relationship, I honestly think I’d still be that version of me – the girl who didn’t know her worth, who thought she had to earn love by being less than herself.

But that relationship forced me to see clearly what I wouldn’t accept again. It taught me the power of boundaries – not just with other people, but with myself. It made me question what I believed I deserved. And most importantly, it showed me that being ‘chosen’ means nothing if you’re constantly having to prove your value, like love is some prize to be won.

I’m not saying I was perfect in that relationship either. I didn’t always speak up when I should have. I shouted back when we argued – most of the time. I brushed off things that hurt me instead of confronting them. Sometimes I twisted myself to avoid conflict or convinced myself things weren’t that bad. And part of that came from not knowing any better – not having the language or the strength yet to set boundaries. But I’ve grown since then. I’ve learned to take responsibility for the way I show up in love – not by carrying all the weight, but by staying connected to who I am and what I need. That version of me was doing her best with what she knew, and I’ve come a long way since then.

Yes, that relationship left scars. It left wounds I still carry in quiet moments. But it also left standards. Standards that shaped the woman I’ve become – a woman who knows what love should feel like, who refuses to settle for anything less than respect, kindness, and freedom.

So, this isn’t a post dragging my ex or blaming him. Honestly, it’s not really about him at all.

I don’t know who he is anymore, just as much as he no longer knows who I am. He could be a completely different boyfriend to someone else now, and for the sake of her (or any other girl he dates), I really hope that’s true. We were both young and figuring out what love meant for us, and it just so happened that the way he showed up wasn’t what I needed or deserved. That version of him was the best he could give at the time – but I needed more. And now I know I’m allowed to want more for myself.

Because now, I’m in something so different that at first, I didn’t even recognise it as love.

It’s calm. It’s safe. It’s kind.

It doesn’t need to shout for attention or constantly test my loyalty.

It just exists, quietly and fully.

It shows up in quiet support, in genuine curiosity about my days, in being there even when it’s inconvenient, in the little ways that add up to something steady and real.

I’m dating someone who doesn’t try to dim my light. Who reminds me I’m beautiful before I even have a chance to doubt it. Who encourages me to grow, not by trying to change me, but by gently pushing me outside of my comfort zone so that I can become my best self. Someone who listens when I say I’m struggling instead of brushing it off. Who lets me rest without guilt. Who chooses me every day without making me feel like I’m on stage, performing for approval.

This kind of love felt almost foreign to me because I didn’t know it was possible. If I hadn’t been through the pain and confusion of what came before, I might not have recognised it. I might have walked past it, not believing that love could be this simple and still be this powerful.

That’s the real heart of this post.

It’s about being grateful for the lessons, even when they come wrapped in heartbreak and self-doubt.

It’s about looking back without bitterness because you know those hard moments made you stronger.

It’s about honouring your past because it taught you what love should be – and what love should never be.

Because this is what love feels like now:

Freedom.

Like finally being able to breathe deeply after holding your breath for far too long.

Like laughing without hesitation, without scanning the room to see if you’re annoying someone.

Like being loved without conditions, without feeling like you have to earn it every day.

It feels like emotional safety, something I didn’t even realise I craved until it showed up.

It feels like peace where chaos used to live.

It feels like standing tall in your own life, fully aware of what you deserve and are unwilling to settle for less.

It feels like finally seeing yourself clearly, and liking who you see.

And of course it’s not perfect, we still bicker sometimes. We misunderstand each other. There are days when we don’t quite sync up. But we work through it. Not because we’re scared of losing each other, but because we genuinely want to understand and grow together.

It’s not about winning or being right. It’s about getting it right together.

That’s the difference.

So if you’ve ever been in a relationship that made you question your worth, I see you.

If you’ve ever stayed longer than you should have, hoping they’d change, I feel you.

If you’ve ever looked back with shame for what you tolerated, I understand.

But I promise you this: it gets better.

You learn. You heal. You find yourself when no one is trying to control the volume. And then, one day, you find a love that feels like home – not a performance or a test.

That’s what I have now.

That’s what I’m grateful for every single day.

And that’s what I want anyone reading this to know is absolutely possible.

Because you are not too sensitive. You are not too much. You are not asking for too much. You just haven’t yet found the right space to receive the love you deserve. But when you do, you’ll know.

Because it won’t feel like walking on eggshells anymore.

It will feel like finally coming home.

— Lilly x