Love as Truth:
The Long, Slow Walk to Becoming
My best friend and I talk a lot about what it means to stand in truth.
About how lonely that is. How lonely it can be.
Because truth—real truth, the kind that won’t let you look away—doesn’t come with a crowd. It doesn’t come with applause. Sometimes it doesn’t even come with understanding.
But I’m starting to believe—or maybe I’m finally acknowledging what I’ve always known—that truth is a responsibility. Truth is loving yourself so much that you’re willing to grapple with something you know might be hard. Something that won’t allow you to look away or to dilute it.
Because that dilution? That’s the antithesis of what we’ve come to know truth as.
What’s Mine Is Enough:
This is not to say that any of us have a monopoly on truth. This is not to say that my truth is better, or that my perspective is superior.
It’s to say this: my truth is mine. And that in and of itself makes it valuable. That makes it powerful. That makes it uncompromised. That makes it enough.
Love as truth is knowing this and standing in it anyway.
Even when it’s lonely. Even when no one else sees it the way you do. Even when speaking it costs you something.
The Long, Slow Walk:
Love as truth is the long, slow walk to reckoning.
To becoming. To rebirthing. To replanting. To reblooming.
It is painfully beautiful. Terrifyingly powerful. Extremely magical.
It is naming what you want and how you want it—for you, not for anyone else. But for you.
It is taking steps to make sure that it will continue to be as true for as long as you need it to be.
It is reserving the right to change your mind about what truth is for you. Because truth is not static. Truth grows with you. Truth shifts as you shift. And loving yourself means giving yourself permission to let it.
Houseplants in Winter:
This is an ongoing campaign.
To love yourself louder and more passionately. And softer and more intimately. And more warmly.
Even in the midst of the cold winter.
It is houseplants that are still growing, even in winter.
It is people who are finding the courage to keep running, even in winter.
But most importantly, it is love.
Love that refuses to compromise your truth for comfort. Love that stands in what’s real even when what’s real is hard. Love that says: I will not dilute myself. I will not look away. I will not make my truth more palatable just to make others more comfortable.
Painfully Beautiful, Terrifyingly Powerful:
Standing in truth is lonely sometimes.
Because not everyone will understand. Not everyone will celebrate. Not everyone will see the magic in what you’re building, in who you’re becoming, in the truth you’re practicing.
But here’s what I’m learning: that loneliness is not a sign that I’m wrong. It’s a sign that I’m willing to stand in what’s mine—even when standing alone is the cost.
And there is magic in that.
Magic in naming your truth and refusing to shrink it. Magic in the long, slow walk toward becoming. Magic in the reblooming that happens when you give yourself permission to grow at your own pace, in your own season.
What This Means:
If you’ve been standing in a truth that feels lonely—know this: your truth is yours. And that makes it valuable. That makes it powerful. That makes it enough.
You don’t need a crowd to validate it. You don’t need applause to make it real. You just need the courage to keep walking the long, slow walk toward it.
To keep reblooming. To keep replanting. To keep loving yourself loudly and softly and warmly—even in winter.
Because love as truth is not about being understood by everyone. It’s about being honest with yourself. It’s about refusing to dilute what’s real just to make it easier for others to digest.
It’s about standing in what’s yours and calling that love.
— LaTrina
P.S. What truth are you standing in right now that feels lonely? What are you refusing to dilute?