Love, I’ve learned, comes in many forms, but not all love feels the same. The stark contrast between the unconditional support of my partner and the challenging dynamics with my family has shaped my understanding of love in ways I never expected.
Imagine being raised to endure. To be strong, resilient, and guarded, as though love was a test of how much you could withstand. Now imagine falling in love with someone who doesn't ask for resilience or endurance but instead offers you ease and peace. It’s like learning a new language: the language of softness, safety, and love without conditions.
From a young age, I learned that love and survival were intertwined. Growing up in an environment filled with abuse and harm, I mistakenly equated acts of violence and chaos with passion and love. It’s a confusing lesson for a child to unlearn when physical disputes, screaming matches, and tears are normalized as the language of adults in love. I witnessed this cycle so often that I thought, this must be what love looks like.
But even as a child, something deep within me rejected that idea. I knew it wasn’t what I wanted for my life. Somewhere along the way, I developed an affinity for kindness and softness, for people who carried peace and not chaos. I ended up having a thing for "soft guys" (lol) the complete opposite of what I was surrounded by.
Despite the world I grew up in, I refused to let it define the love I wanted or the person I aspired to be. I didn’t enmesh myself with these vices (drugs, alcohol, gang violence), nor did I choose to seek out people who partook in them. Instead, I chose differently. And in doing so, I learned that love doesn’t have to hurt, and survival doesn’t have to be a prerequisite for connection.
I think back to when I was freshly eighteen years old. After years of D’s and F’s and hearing people tell me I had no chance in hell, I worked my butt off to graduate high school. My last day should have been a moment of pride and celebration. Instead, it became one of my most painful memories. My dog, Chloe, fell severely ill that day. She passed away two days later.
Why am I telling you this, you might ask? To shed light on the isolation and grief I felt in my household. At the time, I lived with my mom, my stepdad, and his daughter. But I rarely felt like I belonged. I was struggling to process my C-PTSD, and Chloe was my emotional support. The one source of comfort that made the loneliness bearable.
When Chloe passed, something in me broke. Weeks later, I snapped during another verbal dispute with my mom. I was consumed by anger and sadness. On the surface, I came off as a “problem child.” That’s how I was always treated, and eventually, that’s how I began to see myself. I internalized the label, and in my frustration, it became a challenge: “You think I’m a problem? I’ll show you just how bad I can be.” Hardened by the constant tension in my home, I learned to guard myself just to survive.
That same year, I met James. He made it clear from the beginning that he wanted to be with me, but I couldn’t believe he was anything good for me. I had built walls so high that I doubted anyone could, or would, want to climb them.
James and I hit it off on several dates that year, bonding over the shared weight of our childhood traumas. At first, it was terrifying. Did he truly like me, or was I just the catalyst for his healing? Now, almost seven years later, I can confidently say it was both. By coming together and loving each other, we became catalysts for each other’s internal and eternal growth. We’ve shown each other that love doesn’t have to hurt. It can be soft, healing, and safe.
For someone like me, who was handled roughly my entire life, this kind of love felt like something out of movies or TV shows. Unreal and unattainable. Yet here I am. Fast forward to today, and I’ve made incredible progress in my journey with myself. I’m kinder to myself now. I speak love, fairness, and truth into my soul. I still face frustration, but I’ve learned that it’s okay. Being human means feeling all the emotions.
But here’s the thing: growing up, it felt like I was destined to never know the purity of love. That’s a painful realization. You’d think love would be the foundation. Yet, we don’t talk enough about the importance of gently raising Black children, of nurturing their self-esteem, their sense of self, and their truth. Instead, I’ve seen the opposite time and time again.
The sad reality is, my folks didn’t have great examples of love growing up either. It’s a cycle, one I hope to break—not just for myself, but for the future I want to build.
Back to my relationship, I’d like to share how being with James has softened me and brought me closer to my inner child.
As a child, I wanted to write. If you’d asked me back then, I would have said I wanted to be a singer. In truth, the answer was both yes and no. I do have a beautiful voice, but I never cared to sing for others. What I really wanted was to use my voice to guide people—whether through songwriting, blogging, or simply speaking.
But I lived a very lonely life. People didn’t know, and it often felt like they didn’t care, about what little Deja cared about. So, I pushed those ambitions deep down and pursued everything else to be taken seriously by my family. I loathe people-pleasing now, but at the time, I didn’t even recognize it in myself. It took years of these experiences to understand how much I sacrificed my own happiness to meet others’ expectations.
When I was nineteen, I pursued my Medical Assistant Certification. It got me the praise I was searching for, but it came at a cost. I started an internship at a small workers' comp office. At first, it seemed promising—until I realized I didn’t know how to do anything. COVID had disrupted my medical training, and despite the chaos, my school still pushed me into an internship.
It wasn’t long before my coworkers grew frustrated. They treated me poorly—yelling at me in front of patients, gossiping about me, and behaving like mean high school bullies. One day, I broke down. And when I did, who do you think I called? If you think it was James, you’d be disappointed.
I called my mom. In that moment, I desperately wanted her to remind me that I was capable and smart. I wanted her to be there for me. After all, I had pursued this path largely to make her proud. I thought the least she could do was offer support. But instead, all I can remember is her screaming into the phone, telling me there was nothing she could do for me. I hung up, tears streaming down my flushed face, feeling more alone than ever.
That moment was pivotal. It forced me to confront the fact that I was the reason for my unhappiness. I had been living for others, seeking their approval, sacrificing my own dreams and receiving nothing in return. Not even a decent career. Ouch. After that day, I gave up on medical assisting. But when I told James what had happened, he was so gentle with me. He helped me understand that I was letting someone else live vicariously through me, and it was making me miserable.
So, I decided to put a stop to it. I graduated from the program but pursued medical only a couple more times before realizing it wasn’t for me. Some of the cruelest people I’ve encountered work in that field, and protecting my peace has become my top priority. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all of this, it’s that no amount of praise is worth sacrificing your own happiness.
Now I spend a lot of my time writing. And I feel at peace with it. Of course it's no corporate job what I'm doing here, but I have faith that if I continue pouring into myself and what I love to do, I'll be much better off than I was in my people-pleasing days.
If there’s one truth I hold close now, it’s that love, whether it’s from others or within ourselves, should feel like freedom, not a cage. It should nurture, not deplete. My life has taught me that love doesn’t always arrive in the ways we expect, but it can teach us the most profound lessons about who we are and who we want to be.
Choosing myself, choosing peace, and choosing to let go of the expectations that once held me captive have been the hardest but most rewarding decisions I’ve ever made. These days, I find joy in the little moments: crafting words that reflect my soul, loving a partner who brings me ease, and creating a life that feels like my own.
To anyone reading this who feels stuck in patterns that don’t serve them, I hope my story reminds you that it’s never too late, nor inconvenient, to rewrite your narrative. Healing is messy, growth is painful, and freedom is a practice. But it’s a practice worth committing to, because on the other side, there’s a version of you that’s free, soft, and thriving.
I’m still getting to know that version of myself. But every word I write, every moment I choose peace, I’m a little closer. And if you’re on this journey too, I hope you know you’re not alone. We’re all learning the language of love and self-discovery, one step at a time. So keep going. Much love, xoxo.