Fated. Magnetic. Unfinished.

Better the heart that breaks than the one that never beats.

I didn’t come to this belief gently. This wasn’t learned in a book or stitched together from pretty quotes that fall apart the moment life gets sharp. This came from living. From choosing depth. From choosing the wrong people for the right reasons. From loving with my whole chest instead of dipping a toe in for safety.

Here’s the part no one likes to admit: A heart that breaks was alive.

A heart that never beats just… exists.

We’re taught to protect ourselves like it’s wisdom. Guard your heart. Don’t love too hard. Don’t need too much. Don’t risk it. And somehow, fear got rebranded as maturity.

It’s not wisdom. It’s fear wearing sensible shoes.

A broken heart hurts like hell. It humbles you. It cracks you open. It leaves you sitting on the floor questioning your judgment, your worth, sometimes your sanity. I won’t romanticize that part. But at least it proves something mattered. At least it proves you showed up.

The heart that never beats doesn't ache—but it also never expands. It never learns what it’s capable of. It never gets wrecked by laughter or undone by connection or changed by love that reaches bone-deep. It stays intact by staying untouched.

And untouched is not the same as whole.

I’ve tried the safe version. The quiet one. The controlled one where nothing breaks because nothing is ever fully given. It looks calm from the outside. Predictable. Responsible.

It’s also lonely as hell.

So yes—better the heart that breaks. Better the heart that risked. Better the heart that beat loud enough to be heard, even if it cracked under the weight of it.

Because the alternative is not safety; it is a hollow peace, a slow death by settling. It is the silence that screams louder than any heartbreak, the kind that creates a stagnant pool where the soul suffocates.

It forces you into the desperate, exhausting performance of trying to be happy. But real happiness is never a performance. It is not a treasure you must fight to attain or lock away to keep. It is a state of being, a resonance deep in the bone—you simply are it.

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The False Label of Love

What makes this harder is how comfortable the world has become calling not-love “love.”

We accept proximity as intimacy. Consistency as commitment. Possession as passion. Control as care.

People stay because it’s familiar, or financially safer, or because being alone scares them more than being unseen. People fake love out of loneliness, routine, or the fear of starting over. Some confuse love with ownership. Some use it as leverage.

Some never mean to lie—they just don’t know what love actually feels like, so they label whatever they have and move on.

And the world applauds it—as long as it looks stable. As long as it doesn’t rock the boat. As long as it checks the boxes.

Real love doesn’t do that.

Real love is disruptive. It’s overwhelming. It wakes something inside you that you didn’t even know was asleep—and once it’s awake, you can’t quiet it again.

That’s why people fear it. Not because it’s unhealthy, but because it’s uncontrollable. Most don't understand it or how to cope with it.

It is a relentless summons to your full, aching presence, a love that leaves no room for the cautious calculations of the past. It quietly insists that you rise—not manage the careful boundaries of your heart, but expand to hold a truth that is utterly overwhelming and completely transforming.

Most people don’t know what to do with that kind of intensity. They desperately label it “too much,” condemn it as unrealistic, and in that moment of profound fear, they retreat.

They don't just run; they vanish into the safety of their old, smaller lives.

But the escape is a lie. Though they may walk away and try to forget, a truth has been etched into their soul. And in the silent, most private corners of their minds, they will forever carry that memory.

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The Measure of One

Here’s the other thing people get twisted: You can love more than one person.

You can love deeply, sincerely, honestly—more than once. You can love people for different reasons, in different seasons, in different ways.

There are different kinds of love, and even different kinds of romantic or intimate love. Some teach you. Some heal you. Some feel like home for a while. Some burn fast and bright. Some are gentle. Some are complicated. Some are necessary steps on the way to becoming who you are.

That doesn’t make any of them fake.

But there is a difference between all of those many loves and the one love, the scary, put-your-big-girl-panties-on love.

True love isn't about whether the timing was right, or the circumstances lined up, or if you managed to hold on in the end. It’s the love that doesn’t feel like effort or performance or strategy. It doesn’t require shrinking, negotiating your soul, or explaining yourself into being understood.

It's about that quiet, undeniable moment when someone finally sees you—all of you: the parts you hide, the parts you’re ashamed of, the parts you don't even let yourself look at.

It doesn't force you to make yourself smaller, to explain away your mess, or to perform some version of yourself that’s easier to love. It just shows up exactly where you are—even exhausted, flawed, defenses down—and somehow, from that broken place, it calls something better out of you.

Not by demanding it, but just by being there, steady, unafraid of your edges.

It's the kind of love that makes you feel like you’re finally home in your own skin while standing next to another person.

The kind that leaves you quietly wrecked—not because it hurts you, but because being truly seen changes you.

It makes it impossible to go back to pretending, to settling, to dimming yourself just to fit in.

And there’s only one of those.

That depth, that quiet certainty, that way of being seen without hiding—it becomes the measure. The silent standard you carry inside your chest. It is a fundamental shift, a rewiring of the way you feel everything.

Everything else is felt in comparison, even when it’s good. Especially when it’s good.

It doesn’t just fade; it changed something fundamental. You will not forget the way it made the world feel wider and softer all at once.

It will sit inside your soul, a memory your body refuses to let go of. You won't be able to replace it; nothing will be able to slide in and take its place because the shape it leaves behind is far too specific.

You won’t be able to confuse it—when something new brushes close, you will know immediately, with a quiet, undeniable certainty: this isn't that. This is something else.

It’s being together without needing words. Time slowing down and somehow racing at the same time. Fingertips memorizing every inch of someone’s body, yet every touch still sparking like the first time. Every kiss still stealing your breath.

It’s the way those moments quiet everything. The noise. The spirals. The constant hum in your head. Until there’s only stillness and knowing. No effort. No doubt. Just presence.

You either experience it… or you don’t.

And that’s why people settle. Because admitting there’s only one means admitting they may never touch it. Or that they did—and let it go. Or that what they’re calling love is actually comfort dressed up as commitment.

But knowing the difference changes you. Once you’ve felt real love—even briefly—you can’t unknow it. You can love again, yes. You can build again. You can choose again.

But that one? That one stands alone.

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The Constant Constellation

That’s how you know the universe didn’t bring you here by accident. That this path wasn’t random. That some connections are written, not chosen.

Those connections don’t arrive quietly. They don’t knock. They don’t ask permission. They pull.

They show up charged. Humming. Rearranging the furniture in your chest before you’ve decided if you’re ready.

That’s the love people spend lifetimes circling but never touching. And once you’ve felt it—even once—you understand why nothing shallow ever satisfies again.

Fated doesn’t mean easy. It means inevitable. Magnetic doesn’t mean safe. It means undeniable. And unfinished doesn’t mean failed. It means the story hasn’t reached its final punctuation yet.

Some connections aren’t meant to be wrapped neatly. Some are meant to linger. To echo. To return when timing changes and people grow and the universe decides the conditions are right.

Unfinished is space. Unfinished is possibility.

And if you’ve ever felt a connection like that, you know—you don’t unfeel it. You don’t unknow it. You carry it with you like a constellation etched into your internal sky.

Guiding you. Reminding you. Waiting.

Fated. 

Magnetic. 

Unfinished.

Not a tragedy

. A truth.

And always—

Better the heart that breaks 

than the one that never beats.

  -JstJenni