We’ve never been particularly drawn to celebrating Valentine’s Day.
Not out of rejection, but because love, reduced to a single day and a single form, always feels incomplete.
We’re not defined by romance.
We’re defined by romanticizing.
That way of doing things with intention.
Setting the table even when no one is coming over.
Cooking while thinking about who will taste it.
Getting dressed even when there’s no special occasion.
Walking through the city as if it were a setting, not a routine.
This year, however, it feels right to talk about love.
But not just one kind.
Who do you love?
The question isn’t looking for a specific answer.
It doesn’t point to one person.
It opens a list.
You can love someone.
Several people.
A friend you share long conversations with.
Your father when he calls for no reason.
The one who stays beside you in silence.
You can love what you do.
The action itself.
The focus while reading, working, or writing.
The calm of walking somewhere that inspires you, listening to your favorite songs.
The precision of choosing well.
There is also love towards yourself.
The hardest to sustain, and the most transformative once learned.
Getting dressed for yourself.
Caring for yourself without external reason.
Choosing yourself, even when no one is watching.
Love is one, but it moves in many directions.
The love you give, and the love you allow yourself to receive.
The love you show, and the love you practice quietly.
For us romanticizing doesn’t mean idealizing.
It means deciding that the everyday deserves intention.
That an object can accompany real moments.
That a piece can adapt to different lives.
That functionality, too, can be made with intention.
Everything done with love, whoever it’s for, shows.
In the gesture.
In the energy.
In the way it’s shared.
Maybe Valentine’s Day isn’t about finding someone to love.
Maybe it’s about asking yourself:
Who do you love?
And how you choose to show it, every day.
