Self-Love with a Side of WTF

I come from a country where love was rarely spoken, let alone shown. In Bulgaria — especially during and after the communist era — affection wasn’t a priority. Survival was. Life was hard. Emotions were inconvenient. And relationships? You stayed, even when things were broken, even when no one was really happy. You just… endured.

My parents, grandparents, and so many in their generation did what they had to do. They raised kids while they were practically kids themselves. They faced financial struggles, worked relentlessly, and kept their pain to themselves. They didn’t have the luxury to ask, “Am I emotionally fulfilled?” or “Is this love healthy?” Those weren’t questions you could afford when your energy was spent just trying to put food on the table.

And so, affection became a foreign language. Vulnerability, a weakness. Communication, a skill nobody was taught.

But here’s the thing: that emotional survival mode didn’t end with them. It was passed down, silently, like a family heirloom we didn’t ask for. Many of us were raised in homes where love was confused with sacrifice, where emotional distance was normal, and where the idea of “working on a relationship” sounded like a luxury for the privileged or the Western.

I didn’t learn how to talk about my feelings. I didn’t see what healthy love looked like. I didn’t witness open conflict being resolved with tenderness. I didn’t learn that affection isn’t earned — it’s given, freely, by people who know how to love and be loved.

So, I grew up believing certain stories:

That love is something you have to chase.

That expressing your needs makes you too much.

That being in a relationship means enduring silence, not creating safety.

That closeness and joy are fleeting — not foundational.

But I’m unlearning. Slowly. Messily. With a lot of grace and a lot of grief.

I’m realizing that many of the issues I’ve faced in my relationships weren’t about incompatibility or failure. They were echoes from childhood — a craving for something I never got, and a deep confusion about what love is supposed to feel like. When you grow up emotionally starved, you mistake intensity for intimacy. You cling to crumbs because you’ve never known a feast.

And it’s not about blaming our parents or grandparents. They were doing their best with what they had, in a world that wasn’t soft with them. But it is about awareness — about choosing to stop the cycle and do things differently.

These days, I’m learning:

That love feels like peace, not chaos.

That I don’t need to be in pain to prove it’s real.

That being held emotionally is just as important as being held physically.

That it’s okay to want affection, connection, closeness — not because I’m needy, but because I’m human.

I’m teaching myself a new language. One of softness, honesty, and emotional safety. I’m rewriting what love means to me — not based on what I saw, but on what I now know I deserve.

And if you’re reading this and nodding along, maybe you’re doing the same. Maybe you’re breaking generations of silence with a single “How are you, really?” Or healing centuries of repression with one moment of real connection.

We’re not just healing ourselves. We’re reshaping love for everyone who comes after us.