Love Is Never Wasted
Love is so risky.
And I don’t just mean romantic love.
We all know that’s risky.
I mean just… love.
All of it.
It’s always a gamble.
It has the power to fill you and empty you in the same breath.
Years ago, I wrote a letter to my younger self. I’ve kept that letter on my desk at work, tucked under the current month on my calendar. Every time I flip the page, I reread it.
One line says:
Love is never wasted.
A lot of people are going to come in and out of your life. They may do you wrong. You may do them wrong. Your heart will break—many times. But loving someone is never a waste. Don’t become bitter. Don’t forget the good that came from each time you loved someone. You keep loving those souls while they’re in your life and even after they leave. Love is the medication needed in this life. Every time you love, you win. Every. Single. Time.
When my last relationship was ending, I was full of anger and resentment.
They said, “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”
I stayed silent.
“Well… I don’t feel like it was a waste of time,” they said.
“I do.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Okay.”
And at the time, it was true.
It did feel like a waste.
Years.
Plans.
Promises that dissolved into nothing.
I hate having my time wasted.
And honestly? In some ways, it was.
But that is not the same thing as love being wasted.
Love is never a waste.
When I was little, I wanted to give money to every unhoused person at every stoplight.
The adults in the front seat would say things like,
“They’ll just buy drugs,” or
“They probably aren’t even really homeless.”
And I remember sitting in the backseat thinking:
So what?
I wanted to give them my {parents} money.
I just wanted to be kind.
What they did with it wasn’t mine to control.
Even then, I understood that.
Children’s hearts — that’s where the wisdom is.
Somewhere along the way, though, loving got harder.
When you see people mishandle your love, it’s harder to give it freely.
When it isn’t returned, it’s harder still.
When it ends in heartbreak or bitterness or betrayal, you start guarding it like treasure.
Love becomes something you ration.
Something you protect.
Something you decide people have to earn.
Something you start believing can be wasted.
Slowly, quietly, you become the adult in the front seat.
The one saying, “No, we’re not giving five dollars. They might misuse it.”
And it sounds responsible.
It sounds wise.
It sounds safe.
But it isn’t who I want to be.
Because when I reread that letter to my younger self, I remember:
Love was never about them.
It was always about me.
About the condition of my heart.
My responsibility ends at showing up honestly.
At loving well.
At giving freely.
What someone else does with that love is theirs.
The control stops with the giving.
And there is so much freedom in that.
So yes — my time in that relationship?
Some of it feels wasted.
But my love?
Never.
Because I loved fully.
I showed up.
I tried.
I stayed soft.
And that counts for something.
Now the only question left is this:
Do I stay the child in the backseat — generous, open, reckless with kindness?
Or do I become the adult in the front seat — cautious, guarded, calculating who deserves what?
If you’ve ever experienced the pure, unfiltered love of a child, you already know the answer.
I’ll choose the child.
Every single time.
And maybe that’s the bravest thing we can do as adults — not harden.
Not calculate.
Not keep score.
But stay soft anyway.
To love without guarantees.
To give without contracts.
To keep our hearts open even after they’ve been broken a dozen times.
Because the world doesn’t need more protected hearts.
It needs more brave ones.
And if loving means I risk getting hurt again…
then at least I’ll know I lived with my heart open.
And to me, that has never been a waste.
Keep Reading
• The Real Cost of Avoiding Pain – why numbing ourselves often hurts more than heartbreak
• Love in Quiet Yeses – a softer look at the everyday ways love quietly stays
