“If I do not have love,
I am just a clanging cymbal.”

I’ve read that before.

I’ve heard it explained.
Heard it applied to how we treat people.
How we speak.
How we show up.

But I don’t think I’ve ever felt it
the way I do now.

Because it’s one thing to read about love
when life feels steady.

It’s another thing
to hold onto it
when it would be easier not to.

After everything I’ve walked through—
the moments that tested me,
the things that could have hardened me—

I understand it differently.

Because I can still speak well.
Still show up.
Still do the right things on the surface.

But if love isn’t there—
if it’s been replaced with bitterness,
guardedness,
or just going through the motions—

then it’s just noise.

And that’s the part that stays with me.

Not whether I get everything right.

But whether I let what I’ve been through
change the way I love.

Because that’s the real cost.

Not what happened.

But what it takes from you
if you let it.

So I’m learning to pay attention to that.

To protect it.

To choose it, even when it’s quieter
and harder to hold onto.

Because without it—

nothing else really matters.

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