Love Day
I have always loved Valentine’s Day.
From as far back as I can remember, it has felt like a day that glows a little brighter than the rest, a soft interruption in the winter calendar that asks us to pause and notice love wherever it lives.
As a child, I loved every part of it, carefully choosing little paper valentines in elementary school, writing names in my neatest handwriting, hoping mine would be written too. There was something so tender in that exchange, the simple act of giving and receiving, of being seen, even briefly. I loved the colors most of all, pink and red, bold and unapologetic, a combination I would rarely wear together in real life, though perhaps I would if done just right. On this day, those colors belong everywhere. They warm the world. They soften it.
What I have always loved about Valentine’s Day is not that it is meant for lovers, but that it is meant for love, all of it, in every form. Romantic love, yes, but also familial love, childhood love, quiet love, the love we extend to ourselves, the love that exists without being named. It is a day that invites you to romanticize life just a little more than usual. Hearts, lace, chocolate, handwritten notes in cursive, dated. And flowers, always flowers. Hand chosen flowers.
Oh, the flowers.
Red roses, which on any other day might feel a bit obvious or even cheesy, become the most romantic thing in the world on Valentine’s Day. They feel intentional. Earnest. Unapologetic. When I was a little girl, my dad would send me flowers at school, and I still remember the thrill of hearing my name called over the intercom, being asked to come to the office. Walking down the hallway knowing something special was waiting for me. That feeling never left. Even now, flowers give me butterflies. They always will.
Valentine’s Day has never looked the same for me year after year. I never attached expectations to it or allowed my experience of the day to hinge on someone else’s actions. I never needed it to be a certain way. I’ve always loved it for how it simply arrives, offering itself up differently each time, shaped by the season of life I’m in. There is so much beauty and love moving through the world if we allow ourselves to see it, if we stop insisting it show up in only one form.
That’s what I want my boys to learn.
That Valentine’s Day is not a measure of worth, not a performance, not something that can be missed or failed. It is a celebration of love in its many expressions. Someday, I hope they share it with people they adore, but more importantly, I hope they carry its meaning with them always, that love is generous, playful, creative, and meant to be shared freely.
This year will look a little different, as every year does. And that is not a bad thing. It is simply life unfolding. What I know is this: there will be heart-shaped pancakes in the morning, little love notes tucked into books, flowers on the table, probably far too many, and a house filled with warmth. There will be laughter, sweetness, and a conscious effort to mark the day, to say yes to love in all its forms.
Valentine’s Day is a force.
A reminder.
An invitation.
And I will always answer it.