My mom always warned me that love might not come easily to me. As a child, I didn’t think much of it. Love was something abstract, something I assumed would just happen one day, like the stories in books or the movies where two people’s paths crossed at exactly the right moment. But as I grew older, her words started to linger in my mind, weaving themselves into my thoughts whenever I found myself alone.

Maybe she saw something in me—my stubbornness, my refusal to be anything other than who I am, my unwillingness to play by the unspoken rules that make love “easier” for others. I’ve always had high standards, not in a superficial way, but in the way that matters. I want something real, something that doesn’t require me to shrink myself to fit into someone else’s life. I crave freedom, not just in the physical sense, but in the space to be fully and unapologetically me.

I try not to let my mother’s words define my journey, but there are moments when doubt creeps in. Was she right? Will love always be just out of reach for someone like me? Or was she simply preparing me for the fact that the kind of love I seek—the deep, passionate, unwavering kind—isn’t the kind that comes easily?

I don’t want to believe that finding love will be difficult. But if it is, I hope it’s only because I refuse to settle for anything less than what I truly deserve.