There are moments on this path of “being love” when love feels… nowhere to be found.

Not in your heart.
Not in your thoughts.
And definitely not in the way you’re speaking to yourself.

You’re irritated. Contracted. Maybe even ashamed.

And the idea of “just choose love” feels like spiritual nonsense.

So here’s a different invitation.

Don’t rise above it.

Go into it.

Set a timer for three minutes.

And give the unloving voice inside you full permission to speak.

Out loud, if you can.

Let it rant. Let it accuse. Let it dramatize.

Let the part of you that feels small, scared, or furious finally have the microphone.

And yes… it might sound something like:

“Wow. That was brilliant.
You really outdid yourself this time, didn’t you?
What kind of next-level nonsense are you trying to pull here?”
(Feel free to get more creative. I know you can.)

Rumi wrote,
“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.”

So let it open.
Even this.
Especially this.

Because here’s the secret no one tells you:

That voice is not the enemy.
It’s a doorway.

And if you let it speak—without resisting it, without believing it—something unexpected happens.

You begin to see it.

And in seeing it…you are no longer inside it.

There is a moment—subtle, but unmistakable—when the spell breaks.

You might laugh.
You might soften.
Or you might catch yourself mid-rant and think,
“Okay… this is getting a little unhinged.”

Perfect.

That’s the crack where love gets back in.

Because that voice?

It’s not truth.
It’s just noise wearing a very convincing costume.

When the timer ends, go to a mirror.

Look into your own eyes.

Not to fix anything.
Not to improve anything.

Just to meet yourself.

And then, gently… speak.

“I’m here.”
“I’ve got you.”
“You’re allowed to be human.”

Let the words be simple. True. Kind.

And then—seal it.

Blow yourself a kiss.

Yes, really.

Because love is not always a feeling that descends upon you like grace.

Sometimes it’s a choice you make in the middle of your own mess.

A small, sacred rebellion.

Three minutes of truth.
One moment of tenderness.

And just like that…you come home to yourself.

You don’t become love by waiting to feel it.

You become love the moment you stop abandoning yourself.

Blowing you kisses,

Arielle

P.S. If you actually make it the full three minutes without laughing, I’m both impressed and slightly concerned. We may need to get you an agent.