Love as a Role, Not a Feeling
Before I ever dated anyone, love felt uncomplicated.
It wasn't emotional.
It wasn't romantic.
It wasn't mysterious.
Love meant providing.
Supporting.
Making sure the person you cared about had what they needed.
I didn't associte love with expression—I associated it with responsibility.
Where That Belief Came From
I didn't arrive at that definition randomly.
Love had always been demonstrated to me through action rather than presence. Through sacrifice rather than closeness. Through work rather than words.
So it made sense that love, to me, meant showing up materially and practically. If you cared, you provided. If you loved, you supported.
Anything beyond that felt optional.
Simplicity That Felt Safe
There was comfort in that simplicity.
Provision is measurable.
Support is actionable.
Responsibility has clear boundaries.
You can succeed or fail at it. You can point to effort. You can prove your commitment without having to expose much of yourself emotionally.
That made love feel manageable.
What Was Missing From the Equation
What I didn't realize at the time was what that definition left out.
Connection.
Emotional availability.
Mutual care.
I didn't think love required those things because I hadn't seen them modeled consistently. Love was something you did, not something you shared.
That belief wasn't wrong—it was incomplete.
How That Belief Followed Me Into Relationships
When I began dating, I led with what I knew.
I provided.
I supported.
I stayed responsible.
I assumed that if I fulfilled those roles well enough, love would naturally grow around them. That affection, closeness, and reciprocity would follow effort.
Sometimes they did.
Often, they didn't.
Understanding Without Judging
I don't look back on that version of myself with regret.
That belief about love came from survival, not ignorance. It was shaped by what was available, not by what was ideal.
Provision was my language because it was the one I had learned fluently.
What This Clarified Later
Over time, experience added complexity to that definition.
I learned that provision can support love—but it can't replace it. That responsibility is necessary—but not sufficient. That love requires more than effort, even when effort is sincere.
But this chapter matters because it names the starting point.
Before love was complicated, it was simple.
Before it was painful, it was practical.
Before it asked for vulnerability, it asked for responsibility.
That was the foundation I carried into love.
And understanding that foundation explains a great deal of what came after.
"Anyone who does not provide for their relatives... has denied the faith." — 1 Timothy 5:8