A Love Letter to Hope, Healing, and the Courage to Feel Again

Tonight, I was listening to “Ordinary” by Alex Warren, and for the first time in a long time, my heart smiled. You know that feeling — when something inside you exhales, and for just a brief, fleeting moment, you remember what joy feels like.

That phrase — “someone who makes your heart smile” — has always stayed with me. It’s not about grand gestures or perfect timing. It’s about peace. It’s about the kind of connection that doesn’t drain you, but revives you. It’s the kind of love that feels like home, the kind that whispers rather than shouts, and the kind that shows you — you were never asking for too much.

We live in a world where so many of us are just trying to keep up. We wake up, work, survive, scroll, and sleep — numbing ourselves in between. Some of us are too haunted by what love once did to us, and others too afraid of what it might do again. And if there’s one person who understands that fear, it’s me.

I’ve been broken by love before — the kind that made me question everything about myself. I’ve been the giver, the forgiver, the believer. I’ve loved through chaos and chosen hope even when I should’ve chosen myself. And because of that, my heart learned to be cautious. I told myself I was healing, but sometimes, healing can also mean hiding.

But here’s the thing — when you are someone who loves like I do, there’s no true hiding. You can try to silence your heart, but it will always find ways to speak. Through songs, through memories, through small moments of beauty that remind you that you were born to feel deeply.

So now, I take it one day at a time. I’m healing. Realigning. Redefining what love means to me. I’m learning that love doesn’t always have to be another person — sometimes it’s the peace you find in solitude, the forgiveness you give yourself, or the courage to open your heart again someday.

And still — every once in a while, when my guard slips for just a second, I feel it again. That fire. That quiet, exhilarating rush that reminds me that love, in its purest form, never dies. It just waits — patiently — for the right person, the right moment, the right energy to meet it halfway.

That’s what “Ordinary” did for me tonight. It reminded me that I don’t have to be afraid of love. That it’s okay to hope. That maybe my story isn’t about giving up, but about believing that the kind of love I dream of isn’t ordinary — and neither am I.

So, as I sang my little heart out tonight, I imagined that somewhere out there, someone might feel the echo of it — like a whisper from the Universe.

And maybe, just maybe, when the time is right… he’ll hear my song and know it was always meant for him.