Love is a tricky thing. It’s expansive and infinite, and yet we are so good at squeezing it into the smallest possible shape—one specific person, one specific kind of relationship, one day circled in red on the calendar. Valentine’s Day, in all its heart-shaped, rose-colored glory, has a way of making love feel like a prize to be won, like a club with a strict guest list. And if you don’t have a significant other? Well, it’s easy to feel like you’re standing outside in the cold, peering in through the frosted window, wondering why everyone else got an invitation to something you didn’t.
But love isn’t meant to be caged like that. Love, in its truest form, is vast. It’s the warmth of a friend laughing at your terrible joke. It’s the comfort of a late-night heart-to-heart when the world feels too heavy. It’s a group of people sitting around a table, swapping stories, passing cookies, and knowing—really knowing—that they belong to each other in a way that has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with care.
That’s why Galentine’s exists. I hosted a Galentine’s this year for the staff of The Jefferson Independent, and it was, without a doubt, one of the best things I could have done for myself. I wrote a charming little valentine to each person who came, not because I’m trying to make Hallmark obsolete (though, honestly, I wouldn’t be opposed), but because I wanted each of them to feel, for at least a moment, that love was something they already had. I wanted them to forget, just briefly, about the lack—the absence of a boyfriend or girlfriend or that longed-for text from a crush—and instead be reminded of what was already there: each other. Selfishly, I needed this reminder too.
When we put a narrow scope on love, we start to compare. And comparison, as we all know, is the thief of joy. It’s easy to look around and think, “Well, they have what I don’t,” and because I don’t have it, I must be missing something. I must be behind, unchosen, unloved. But that’s a lie—a really persistent, really annoying lie. The truth is, we compare when we focus on what we lack, when we let our fear of being alone trick us into thinking love is a scarce resource.
So, let’s confront that fear. To the readers who are single, what if we never find romantic love? What if we don’t have it this year, or the next, or for longer than we’d like? What then? Would we really want to look back and realize we spent all this time punishing ourselves for what we didn’t have, instead of celebrating what we did? Would we really want to remember the years we could have been happy, but chose not to be, just because love didn’t show up in the shape we expected?
I refuse to do that to myself. I love myself too much. I refuse to let love be something I only measure in the number of texts I receive before midnight on February 14th. I refuse to let the presence or absence of a partner dictate whether or not I feel loved. Instead, I will gather my friends, make them sit through five episodes of Sex and the City, hand out little valentines, and remind them that love is here. Right now. It is in this room, in this laughter, in these stories, in the way we show up for each other. And, at the very least, they have me (which, let’s hope, they see as a good thing).
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