The concept of love remains a debate in intellectual history, with definitions spanning from biological necessity to divine transcendence.
Love is often categorized through the Greek taxonomy, distinguishing between *Eros* (passion), *Philia* (friendship), and *Agape* (selfless devotion), suggesting affection is a spectrum of bonds rather than a singular experience.
Plato envisioned love as a “ladder” ascending from physical attraction to a higher appreciation of spiritual beauty. Conversely, Buddhist philosophy emphasizes loving-kindness, while warning against the suffering born of attachment and possession.
Existentialists like Jean-Paul Sartre viewed love as a complex negotiation of freedom, balancing the desire for connection with the inherent need for independence. While Romantics saw love as a sublime emotional anchor providing life’s ultimate meaning, modern analytical philosophers often define it as “robust concern”—a disinterested care for another’s well-being. Together, these perspectives suggest love is simultaneously a biological drive, a moral choice, and a profound journey toward understanding ourselves and others.
My parents possessed their own definition of love.
For them, love was essentially commitment—the act of standing by one another. This devotion was never one-sided. As my father once casually remarked, “when you love someone, you stand by them; you protect them from the world, even if they have done something society does not accept.”
“To love is to give,” my mother would say.
I am uncertain if I would offer the same advice to my daughter. Yet, as a romantic, I found a profound beauty in that philosophy. I spent a significant portion of my life believing in and following that creed.
It is strange, however, that despite being raised with such unconditional, selfless love, I grew up with a persistent dislike toward my appearance. I could never pinpoint the exact flaw, but even at a BMI of 20, the mirror reflected someone “fat.”
Sometimes I was self-conscious about being too tall (at 5 feet 8); other times, it was my hair or facial structure. Whatever the reason, I was never good enough.
I am not a psychologist, but perhaps for this reason, my mind labelled my professional work as the sole source of joy and self-worth.
I lived with this weight for almost 30 years, and honestly, it felt like a constant heaviness upon my chest.
It reached a point where I felt I was simply unworthy of love.What followed was hyper-independence, a protective shell, and a fierce desire to never truly need anyone.
I used to wonder—and I still do—when poets rhapsodized about the beauty of their lovers, were they truly so flawless, or was beauty merely in the eye of the beholder?
Is beauty a prerequisite for true love? Why is it that if a mother can love her child regardless of appearance, we still require looks as the first step on Plato’s ladder?
I now know that nearly 3% of the global population suffers from body dysmorphism, which is entirely distinct from vanity.It is characterized by an obsessive focus on a perceived flaw in physical appearance—a flaw that is often non-existent or so minor that others cannot see it.
Paradoxically, I felt most truly loved at my physical nadir. In a state where even showering was exhausting, let alone grooming. That vulnerability became therapeutic. I began dressing for comfort rather than optics. Mirrors stopped feeling like enemies. I can now view my photographs without harsh judgment. Sometimes, looking at my husband, the thought strikes me: what if he stops? What if his only lasting memory of me is this—a dependent figure in a hospital bed, tethered to an infusion pump? What if he eventually tires? I lack those answers.
He seems to know them, though; he says he has never loved me more. And honestly, I have never felt more cherished. For now, I want to live in this moment , what the future holds for us- is at present not the most pressing question for me.
Thirty years of conditioning told me that weaknesses and flaws drive love away—only to find the purest love in a moment of dependence, fragility, and innumerable imperfections. I still may not look in the mirror and adore what I see, but I can finally smile back at my image and whisper that we have lived a good life.
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