What Love Looked Like at Home — And Why I Stopped Believing in It – Part 1
As I lay in bed with my eyes closed but my mind wide awake, I drift and turn, fighting the sleep my body craves. My limbs are heavy, but something heavier rests on my chest , something that refuses to leave. So I think about my day.
The Couple That Made Me Look Away
I was walking down the road when I saw a couple , laughing, intertwined, wrapped in something that looked a lot like love. I felt a pang of envy in my chest, then quickly looked away. Could someone ever love me like that?
Almost instantly, my mind said no. Not because I don’t want love, but because I don’t believe that kind of love exists. At least, not for someone like me. Not when I’ve never seen it modeled, never felt it planted in me. You can’t bloom what was never watered.
The House Where Love Was Supposed to Live
My thoughts wandered back to my childhood , as far as my memory could stretch. I couldn’t remember ever seeing my parents in love. I don’t remember kisses, or gentle words, or warm glances. What I do remember is survival burning in my mother’s eyes — the constant effort to hold together a life that never really held her.
She stayed for 18 years. Not because there was love , but because she thought she needed him. For herself. For me.
And he stayed because… well, maybe because he needed to own something.
He never offered apologies , just silence, blame, and sometimes flowers after storms. He drank, he disappeared, he returned angry. He slurred every insult in the book, not just at my mother, but at her family. At me. When he got paid, he left. When he returned, the war resumed.
I learned early:
Men can hurt you and still say they love you.
They can anchor you and still drown you.
When Love Looks Like Sacrifice
My mother became invisible. She forgave. She bore it. She wilted and bloomed and wilted again, depending on the season, depending on whether or not he noticed she existed.
It wasn’t love that kept her. It was survival.
And when the betrayal became too visible ,when his women started to look like her friends and our neighbours, the pain deepened.
Worse than the hurt was the pity in people’s eyes.
That’s when I think she gave up on love entirely.
And maybe, so did I.
Searching in Familiar Places
So I looked elsewhere , to my aunts. Their love stories looked different, but still strange. They stayed too, sometimes through money, sometimes through secrets. It didn’t seem like love either. Maybe just the illusion of it. Maybe just convenience.
Then I looked to my uncles , the so-called “good men.” Married, faithful (at least on paper), the ones who wore rings and never raised their voices. For a while, I believed. Until I saw the skirts they walked with. Until the children born outside their homes showed up. Until I realized that even the “honorable” ones had secrets.
The wives stayed too , silent, unmoving. Was that love?
What I Know Now
What I’ve learned is this:
Sometimes people stay because it’s safer than leaving.
Sometimes what we call love is just fear, comfort, shame, or habit.
Sometimes survival dresses itself in a wedding ring and calls itself a happy family.
And so when I think about love now , I don’t chase it. I don’t search for it in the eyes of others. I just sit with the truth of what I was taught… and unlearn what never should’ve been mine.
What Love Might Be
I don’t have all the answers. But maybe love is gentle.
Maybe it’s quiet safety, not dramatic apologies.
Maybe it’s showing up every day, not just when it’s convenient.
Maybe it’s not something I’ll find until I learn to stop looking for the kind I grew up watching.
What did love look like in your home?
Do you believe in it now?
Have you had to unlearn what love was never supposed to be?
Awakened Praise
Welcome to my journey of healing and growth. My name is Awakened Praise, a combination of both my name and surname which carry a very strong meaning which I hope to live up to one day, and I’ve spent years confronting the shadows of my past, wrestling with trauma, depression, and the weight of experiences I once felt I couldn’t escape. This space is where I unpack the layers of those struggles and share the lessons I’ve learned along the way. I’ve walked through the darkest days, battled inner demons, and learned that outrunning trauma isn’t about escape—it’s about confronting it, learning from it, and growing stronger. Here, I talk openly about mental health, personal growth, and the winding road of recovery. My hope is that by sharing my story, I can help others feel less alone and more empowered to face their own battles. Let’s journey together toward healing, resilience, and reclaiming the light on the other side of the storm.