Caring for Someone Without Expecting Them to Recognise it...

Caring for Someone Without Expecting Them to Recognise it...

I’m learning something slowly.

Not easily. But honestly.

That caring for  someone doesn’t automatically mean they will care the way I do.

I don’t doubt your care.

I don’t question your goodness.

I don’t even question your intent.

Your probably the genuine most soul I have ever come across.

What I struggle with is understanding what kind of “I love you” you believe in.

Because the love I know listens when something feels heavy.

Notices discomfort without being asked.

Pauses to ask, “Did that hurt you?”

even when the intention was harmless.

The love I know doesn’t rush past pain.

Doesn’t label it as overthinking.

Doesn’t make light of what feels real.

Maybe your love is different.

Quieter.

More practical.

Less verbal.

More assumed than explained.

And maybe that’s how you’ve learned to love.

I’m beginning to understand that two people can care deeply and still not speak the same language of care.

That one person may show love

by doing, fixing, moving forward —

while the other feels loved by being heard, understood, and held.

Neither is wrong.

But the mismatch can hurt.

So I’m learning something important:

To love you without expecting you to love like me. Actually learning what is unequal.

Not by shrinking my feelings.

Not by silencing my voice.

But by recognising where I must take responsibility for my own tenderness.

Some people love sincerely

but don’t know how to stay with discomfort.

They love — but don’t always know how to sit with pain.

And instead of questioning their intent,

I’m choosing clarity.

I can care for you without waiting for you

to meet me in the same emotional place.

I can respect your way of loving

without abandoning my own.

And that balance — loving without feeling equal and protecting myself without bitterness.

is a quiet kind of strength.

It hurts a little.

But it also brings some peace.