the real story.

I used to dream about fairytales.

I could picture falling in love. I thought it would feel like an explosion, an immediate realization.

We would exchange poetry in the moonlight. He would know everything about me before I could tell him. He would read my mind, take me on romantic dates, and tell me how beautiful I am. I would be a princess. “I’m a hopeless romantic.” A stubborn one, too.

I remember someone telling me “Fairytales don’t exist. That’s ridiculous. No one can be that way.”

“They do exist!” I said.

They don’t.

And I couldn’t be happier to admit it. I don’t want any of the things I did when I was younger.

Turns out, falling in love isn’t like an explosion.

It’s not exchanging poetry, it’s telling each other how excited you are to share a life together.

It’s not reading each other’s minds (who does that?) it’s getting to know someone, with ease.

It’s giggling at your inside jokes.

It’s taking care of each other.

It’s being a team.

It’s growing together, learning together. Becoming a family.

It’s not a “fairytale” it’s what ever your story is.

It’s the most comfortable feeling you know. It’s peace.

It’s home.