#ang oz

There are decisions in life we make quickly — the kind we make when we’re hungry, curious, or young. And then there are decisions that ask us to sit with them. To listen to their silence. To hold them up to the light and watch how they shift with time.

Choosing a life partner… that’s one of those.

It’s not a feeling that crashes into you like a wave. It’s not a spark that ignites simply because eyes met across a crowded room or because the second date came with butterflies and candlelight. It’s more like tending a fire — slow, intentional, and enduring. The kind that keeps you warm, even through a storm.

Because this person? This is supposed to be the one who holds your hand as you say goodbye to the people who raised you. This is your safe place when life becomes too sharp around the edges. This is your constant when everything else shifts. Your soft landing. Your rock. Your home.

After losing the person I thought I’d build my forever with — the one who held space for me in ways that words will never do justice — I learned something sacred: moving forward doesn’t mean rushing forward.

Grief rewires you. It sharpens your understanding of love, of time, of what it means to truly choose someone. So now, for the first time in three years, I’m dating again. But I’m not dating for distraction. I’m not dating to pass time or fill silence. I’m dating because I’m ready to build again — slowly, with care, and on purpose.

This time, I’m not choosing based on chemistry alone. I’m looking at character. I’m listening for consistency. I’m watching how someone shows up when things aren’t easy. I’m more interested in the quiet moments — the ones where you don’t need to perform, pretend, or be anything other than exactly who you are.

This isn’t about fear. It’s about reverence. I understand the weight of this choice. I know what it means to love someone through all of life — the hard parts, the good parts, and the absolutely ordinary. I know what it is to lose them, too.

So yes… I’m taking my time.

And there is nothing wrong with that.

Because I’m not choosing someone to love for a season. I’m choosing someone to love every single day for the rest of my life. I want to grow something real — rooted and resilient. The kind of love that doesn't need a spotlight, only sunlight. The kind that won’t always announce itself loudly but will always be there — steady, sure, and quietly strong.

So no, I won’t be rushed. And no, I won’t settle. This is the most important “yes” I’ll ever give. And when I do, it’ll be because I’ve built a foundation I can stand on — not a fantasy I’m afraid to lose.

Until then, I’m building myself. I’m protecting my peace. And I’m choosing to believe that the right person will understand the value of being chosen with intention — not impulse.

There’s a kind of love that doesn’t start with fireworks. It starts with stillness. With safety. With someone who doesn’t flinch at your softness, but leans into it.

It’s unfamiliar at first — not because it’s wrong, but because it’s real.

You begin to notice what it feels like to not be waiting for the other shoe to drop. To not decode mixed signals, track breadcrumb texts, or navigate the labyrinth of “hard to get.” You start to unlearn the dance of delayed replies and emotional hide-and-seek. You realize... games don’t grow gardens.

And maybe you used to play them, too. Unavailable in subtle ways. Proving your independence by withholding parts of yourself. Thinking love was earned through resistance — that the chase was the spark, the mystery was the magic.

But cardboard love folds easy.

It can look good from a distance — neat edges, sharp lines — but it caves at the first touch of real intimacy. Real connection. Real... presence.

There’s nothing quite like the slow burn of mutual effort. Two people choosing each other — gently, daily, honestly. No stage, no script, just the quiet knowing that love is not a game to win, but a space to arrive.

And when there's no need to prove anything — not your worth, not your strength, not your detachment — you finally get to feel everything. You finally get to be seen.

That’s when it clicks. When you realize love is a choice — not a chase. When there's no fear in being the first to lean in. When there’s no scoreboard, just the shared joy of building something real.

Because at what cost do we keep hiding? What point are we trying to prove by being just a little colder, a little quieter, a little less available than the other person?

To what end?

To lose a fake love?

Fine by me.

I’d rather risk everything for something true — a soft place to land, a heart that doesn’t run, a presence that feels like home.

If it’s meant to be, it will be. Not because I played it perfectly, but because I showed up fully. Unapologetically. Honestly. As me.

There’s a softness I’ve grown into — not the fragile kind, but the quiet strength of a woman who’s stopped handing out pieces of herself just because someone reached for them.

Once, I moved carelessly through connection. I mistook touch for closeness, chemistry for compatibility, and attention for affection. I thought if I held someone long enough, they’d stay. I thought if I didn’t overthink it, it wouldn’t hurt when it unraveled.

But healing… she has a way of teaching slowly and deeply.

Now, I move with intention. I'm purposeful. I don’t give myself to be remembered. I don’t lay down just to feel seen. Intimacy, to me, is no longer skin-deep — it’s soul-drenched. It’s sacred. It’s a vow whispered between bodies, whether spoken aloud or not. A quiet agreement: I see you, I honor you, I don’t touch what I’m not ready to hold.

Because when two souls meet in that space — not to conquer, but to connect — it is no small thing. You don’t just walk away untouched. You carry them in the marrow, in the memory. It's not a prize to win, a game to play, or a night to forget. It's a door. Once opened, it stays open somewhere.

And so now… I am selective. Not out of fear, but out of reverence.

I don’t dissect new love with a roundtable of opinions. I don’t overanalyze texts or turn vulnerability into performance. I hold it close — not in secrecy, but in sacredness. I let it bloom in silence, away from the noise. Not everything precious needs an audience.

Healing taught me this: honesty doesn’t ruin real things. Real love doesn’t fear truth, boundaries, or authenticity — it thrives in them. It breathes easier in spaces where it’s not being manipulated, micromanaged, or masked.

Free women don’t chase cages. Healed women deserve healed love. Brave women don’t wait for cowards to change. Strong women don’t feed weak appetites. Whole women don’t settle for half-love. Powerful women don’t shrink for fragile egos.

Soft hearts deserve safe hands — and I am firmly in my soft girl era, so safe hand me up. Deep hearts deserve deep understanding. Loyal hearts deserve loyal souls. Loving women deserve love without limits. Whole women deserve whole partners. Brave women deserve brave love.

And me? I no longer fear waiting. I fear wasting.

I’ve outgrown the hunger for the shallow. What I crave now is depth — the kind that sees me clearly, holds me gently, meets me wholly, and stays not because I ask, but because they want to.

So I honor love by not rushing it. I protect it by not parading it. And when it comes — truly, deeply, freely — I’ll know it’s not here to conquer, but to connect.

Because some things aren’t meant to be shared with the world.