When You Flinch at Love

How to stay soft when your body mistakes safety for danger

There you are again—
reading tone like scripture,
body tense, breath shallow,
trying to decode the way they sighed when they said your name.

You felt it, didn’t you?
That flicker in your chest,
the old ache that says something’s wrong
even when nothing is.

It’s okay.
You’re not crazy.
You’re remembering.

All those times you were small
and quiet kept you safe.
When you learned to scan faces
like weather reports.
To measure your worth in moods.
To mistake distance for danger.

You survived that way.
But you don’t have to live that way anymore.

I see how you hold your breath
when someone looks away too long.
How you shrink when their tone drops an inch.
How your mind spins stories faster than truth can catch up.

But listen—
not every silence is punishment.
Not every pause is goodbye.
Sometimes love just breathes differently.

You can breathe, too.
In.
Out.
Stay.

You are safe in this moment.
You are safe in this room.
You are safe in your body.

If they seem distant,
it doesn’t mean you did something wrong.
If they go quiet,
it doesn’t mean they stopped loving you.
Sometimes people retreat to find their own air.
Let them.
And keep yours steady.

You don’t have to disappear to stay loved.
You don’t have to shrink to be chosen.
You don’t have to hold everything together
to be worth holding.

I know it’s hard to believe that.
I know how the nervous system confuses peace with boredom,
quiet with rejection,
stability with threat.

But love isn’t the surge.
It’s the soft landing after.

You can speak up when you notice something wrong.
You can ask instead of assume.
You can say, “Hey, I felt you pull away—are you okay?”
and not apologize for the question.

You can stay,
even when your mind screams, run.
You can breathe through the static.
You can trust the moment before the answer.

You don’t have to earn your place in the room.
You already belong.

If they’re upset,
you can let them be upset without making it your fault.
If they’re quiet,
you can let them find their words.
If you’re scared,
you can stay scared and stay present.

Because love isn’t about never flinching.
It’s about learning how to unclench.

You are not broken.
You are healing.
You are not too sensitive.
You are tuned to truth.

And when the panic comes—
when your chest tightens and your thoughts start racing ahead—
come back here.

Feel your feet.
Feel your breath.
Feel the world still holding you.

You are safe to ask.
Safe to rest.
Safe to be wrong sometimes and still be worthy of softness.

You are the pause before peace.
The inhale before yes.
The light that stays, even when the room dims.

So if tonight feels heavy,
if you’re scared you’ve already ruined it,
read this again.

If you overthought a text,
if you replayed the conversation,
if you apologized too many times,
read this again.

You are not too much.
You are not a burden.
You are a body learning peace.

And when you forget—
because you will—
place a hand over your heart,
feel it answer back.

You are still here.
Still loved.
Still safe to stay.

// Scorpio Veil

Play “Sea of Love”

Let it reach the parts of you that never learned how to be touched without fear.