🧠 Unmasking, One Post at a Time
On Being Loved Well
“To be deeply loved by someone gives you strength; to be deeply loved by your parents gives you roots.”
— adapted from Lao Tzu
Not everyone gets what I have.
And I don’t mean that in a bragging way—I mean it in a heart-heavy, gratitude-so-deep-it-hurts kind of way. Because I know what a rare gift it is to be loved without condition. I know how many people live entire lifetimes without feeling truly safe in someone else’s care. I know that what I have is extraordinary.
I have parents who love me well. Not just on the easy days. Not just when I’m thriving. But in the mess. In the unraveling. In the darkest, scariest corners of myself.
Years ago, when I was living in Pensacola and barely holding on, I sent my mom a text in the middle of the night. The kind of text that’s more a whisper than a message. A quiet cry for help from a place where words are too heavy. The next morning, my dad was on a flight. No hesitation. No questions about money or work or logistics. He just came. He came to get me and bring me home. Because home was where they knew I’d be safe.
I didn’t stay long that time. I had a good therapist in Pensacola already. But my parents wanted to help more—they gently suggested I see a psychiatrist, someone who could evaluate me more fully and prescribe medication if needed. There was concern that maybe I had bipolar disorder, something my grandpa had lived with, and something we all wanted answers about. I agreed. And after months of appointments and evaluations, we found out the truth: I’m autistic. It wasn’t bipolar. It was something different. Something real. Something that finally helped everything make sense.
But what stands out to me most isn’t the diagnosis. It’s the way my parents moved mountains to help me get there. It’s the way money didn’t matter when my safety was on the line. It’s the way they showed up.
This past summer, the depression hit harder than it ever had before. I was in a place I don’t ever want to be again—scared, hopeless, and so, so tired. We had tried everything—therapy, medication, art, walking, yoga, journaling. And still, the fog didn’t lift. My parents stepped in again. They paid thousands of dollars—money they really didn’t have—for me to try ketamine treatment. They didn’t hesitate. And twice a week for twelve weeks, my sweet retired dad drove me to Fort Wayne and back for every appointment. Every. Single. One.
That’s love.
That’s the kind of love that doesn’t flinch in the face of pain. That doesn’t demand I be okay when I’m not. That doesn’t shame me for struggling. That simply says: we’re here, and we’re not going anywhere.
And it wasn’t just adulthood. I’ve felt that love my whole life.
I remember one morning in seventh grade, crying silently through first period after something upsetting happened at the neighbor’s house. I didn’t have a phone, so I went to the nurse with a made-up stomach ache—just trying to escape. My mom picked me up. On the drive home, she gently asked if I was really sick. And I broke. I told her what had happened. I’ll never forget how she responded—with tenderness, with protection, with fierce love. My mom’s not the coddling type, but when it matters? She wraps you up in warmth and makes sure you know you’re not alone.
And then there was the day, years later, when I told her I had been making myself throw up during my sophomore year of college. I was terrified. I felt so much shame. But she didn’t react with fear or judgment. She listened. She comforted me. And then she helped—researching eating disorder therapists, helping me find one nearby, even doing the Atkins diet alongside me that summer just to support my healing. That summer ended up being one of the healthiest seasons of my life—physically, emotionally, mentally, socially.
And my dad… how do I even begin?
There is no love on this earth quite like the love my dad has for me, his only baby girl. It’s so deep it spills out of him. You can see it. People comment on it. You can feel it in the way he talks to me, the way he talks about me, the way he always sees the best in me—especially when I can’t.
When I was younger, we spent nearly every summer weekend driving all over Indiana for softball tournaments. Just me and my dad on the road, city to city, game to game. Those drives are stitched into my memory like a favorite song—simple, sacred, irreplaceable. Time that I now realize was so rare. So precious.
My parents have never put me down. They’ve never made me feel like a burden. They’ve never babied me either—well, maybe my dad a little, but only in the most endearing ways. They’ve always believed in me. They’ve always rooted for me. And they’ve always, always loved me well.
There’s no such thing as perfect parents. But mine are as close as it gets.
One day, if I’m lucky enough to have kids of my own, I hope I can love them with even a fraction of the love I’ve been given. Because this kind of love—it’s a foundation. It’s a compass. It’s the thing I return to when everything else feels unsteady.
This post is part of my “Unmasking” series. And if I’ve been able to unmask—if I’ve been able to come home to myself, and live with softness, and keep believing in goodness—it’s because I’ve always had the safety of being loved well.
And that’s everything.