For as long as I can remember, love looked like work.
Not affection.
Not presence.
Not words.
Work.
My father was a workaholic—not because he didn't care, but because providingg was how he showed it. Long hours. Exhaustion. Sacrifice. Bills paid. Food on the table.
That was love, as it was modeled to me.
So I learned early that love wasn't something you felt—it was something you did.
What I Thought Love Required
I believed love required effort.
Productivity.
Sacrifice.
If you worked hard enough, you were valuable.
If you provided enough, you mattered.
If you carried the weight, you were loved.
No one ever sat me down and said this out loud.
I absorbed it by watching.
Presence Was Rare—Provision Was Constant
My father wasn't absent in the ways that make headlines.
He didn't abandon us.
He didn't disappear.
He worked.
And because he worked so much, presence became rare—and rare things feel valuable to children. So I didn't question the model. I internalized it.
Love meant responsibility.
Love meant endurance.
Love meant carrying more than your share without complaint.
How This Shaped My Identity
Over time, I stopped askingg whether I was loved.
I started asking whether I was useful.
I learned to measure my worth by output.
To stay busy.
To stay productive.
To stay necessary.
Rest felt undeserved.
Stillness felt irresponsible.
Joy felt secondary to obligation.
If I wasn't providing something, I worried I wasn't enough.
The Cost of This Belief
This belief followed me everywhere.
Into adulthood.
Into relationships.
Into how I parented.
Into how I treated my own body.
I overworked.
I overgave.
I tied my value to what I could produce.
And when I wasn't producing—
when I was tired, hurting, or struggling—
I felt unlovable.
Not because anyone said so.
But because that's what I had learned.
What I Didn't Learn Until Much Later
No one taught me that love could be quiet.
That love could look like sitting.
Listening.
Being present.
No one taught me that you don't have to earn affection through exhaustion. That your value doesn't rise and fall with your productivity.
I had to learn that on my own.
Slowly.
Painfully.
And often by getting it wrong first.
How I See It Now
I don't blame my father for what he modeled.
He loved the way he knew how.
But I can still tell the truth about what it taught me.
It taught me to confuse love with labor.
Worth with work.
Affection with sacrifice.
And now, my work is different.
Now, I'm learning that love doesn't require collapse.
That presence matters more than provision.
That rest isn't laziness—it's human.
What I Want to Pass On Instead
I want my children to know they are loved even when they're still.
Even when they fail.
Even when they don't provide anything at all.
I want them to know that love isn't something you earn by burning yourself out.
Because I spent too many years believing that if I just worked harder—
I would finally be enough.
"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." — Matthew 11:28