When I love someone and that person shares their love with someone else, there is no damage caused to me.
When two people share love, the outcome is just that: love. It’s not lack, or damage, or a slap on my face — even if my heart screams it to be true.
When two people share love, it’s not even about me. It’s their moment, their bodies, their desires, their lives, and their love is not a weapon. Their love is a treasure, it is precious to behold. And most important of all, it’s an opportunity.
As I receive this love with pain, I observe it. I know this pain is mine, just mine. I know it stems from old wounds, from my early imprints of what I thought love was, from nostalgic sounds and colors and feelings.
This feeling of lack — abandonment, inferiority, grief — is not new. I remember feeling this way when my mother held my baby brother, singing him to sleep; I remember feeling this exact same pain when my best friend from nursery suddenly started spending all her time with another girl, and I wasn’t her best friend anymore.
I trust myself to know the truth, and I follow it as I nurture my pain. I am grateful for all kinds of love, and for having discovered that it can be open, free, unconditional.
Jealousy is a gift, and a lesson that I want to learn patiently and persistently. The pain becomes sweet; it’s raw material for growth, my ability to love ever deepening.
Deep inside, joy builds a solid nest.