Recently I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t go back to sleep. I lay there in the quiet dark, staring at the ceiling as the minutes stretched into hours, and my mind, restless and stubborn, began to wander toward the subject of love—what it has given me, what it has taken away, and all the ways it has quietly shaped who I am.

I asked myself, what is the definition of love, and do I understand and agree with it? The more I sit with this question, the more I realize how much of my idea of love has been shaped by family, culture, and past relationships, and I wonder how much of that I have accepted without really examining it. I find myself questioning whether love is a feeling, a choice, a commitment, or some shifting combination of all three, and whether the way I give and receive love truly reflects what I believe it should be. As I reflect on my experiences—when I have felt loved, when I have struggled to love, and when I have confused love with attachment or fear—I begin to see that my understanding may be incomplete or even mistaken in places. By asking myself these questions, I’m trying not just to define love in abstract terms, but to understand what it really means in my life and whether I’m living in a way that aligns with that deeper meaning.

Did my parents love me? Or did they just raise me because they thought it was the moral thing to do? I never remember them ever saying, “We love you.” Likewise, I can’t ever remember myself saying, “I love you.” Sometimes I wonder if this silence was simply the way our heritage expressed itself, a family culture where love was assumed but never spoken, where duty and sacrifice were supposed to say everything words did not. Growing up in that atmosphere, I learned to read love in practical gestures and unspoken expectations—food on the table, rides to school, a roof over my head—yet a part of me still longed for the clarity of hearing the words out loud. The absence of open affection made closeness feel uncertain and conditional, as if I had to keep guessing whether I was truly loved or just responsibly cared for. Even now, I find myself struggling to say “I love you” easily, unsure if I am breaking an unspoken family rule or finally giving myself what I always needed: permission to believe that love can be both shown and said.

What is love outside of physical attraction? Is love the same without physical attraction, or does it become something deeper, quieter, and more enduring? I find myself wondering whether love can grow from emotional intimacy alone—from the comfort of being truly seen and heard, from the safety of trust built slowly over time, from the small daily acts of care that say, “I choose you” even when no one is watching. Is love present in the way two people hold space for each other’s fears and dreams, in the patience to listen and the courage to be honest, even when it’s hard? I question whether love might be found in loyalty that doesn’t waver when beauty fades, in a steady commitment to understanding the other person’s heart, and in a genuine desire to see them whole, happy, and free, even when it doesn’t directly benefit me. And if all of this is true, then I keep asking myself: is physical attraction just one piece of love, or can love exist fully, powerfully, and authentically without it at all?

This is turning into a complex topic, and the more I sit with it, the more I realize that what I am wrestling with is one of the most quietly profound questions a person can face: what love really is, how it shapes a life, and what it asks of us in return. Because of that, I want to give it the time and space it deserves instead of treating it as just a simple daily blog entry. It is slowly becoming an ongoing, very personal exploration for me—one that may grow into a longer project or even another book to add to my collection of books—as I try to listen more carefully to my own heart and experience. Thanks to one sleepless night, I find myself here with more questions than answers, but also with a sense that these questions about love are worth following wherever they lead.