When Love Feels Like Less

I was 22, sitting cross-legged on a sagging couch in a tiny apartment, when he first said, “I love you.” The words hit me like a warm wave, but as I looked into his eyes, something felt… off. Like a song played just a half-note flat. I smiled, said it back, but inside, I was shrinking. Why did those three words, meant to lift me up, leave me feeling so small? Have you ever felt that?

Love’s supposed to be this big, beautiful thing, right? It’s fireworks, butterflies, the whole rom-com montage. But sometimes, it’s not. Sometimes, it’s a quiet ache, a nagging whisper that something’s not right. I’ve been there—caught in that strange space where love and doubt tangle up, and you’re left wondering if it’s you or the relationship that’s broken. It’s confusing, messy, and so deeply human.

Let me take you back to that apartment. The walls were thin, the kind where you could hear the neighbors’ TV blaring through. He was charming, all easy smiles and quick wit, the kind of guy who could make anyone laugh. We’d spend hours talking about everything—music, dreams, the way the city lights looked from his fire escape. But then there were moments, little pinpricks. A backhanded compliment about my outfit. A sigh when I rambled too long. The way he’d dismiss my ideas like they were childish. “I love you,” he’d say, but those words started to feel like a bandage over a wound he kept picking at.

I think about my friend Sara, who went through something similar. She’d light up telling me about her partner—how he’d plan these grand gestures, like surprise weekend trips. But then, in private, he’d nitpick her choices, her job, even how she laughed. “It’s like I was never enough,” she told me over coffee one day, her voice cracking. That hit me. Because that’s exactly what it feels like—like you’re shrinking to fit into someone else’s version of you. You know that feeling? When you start apologizing for just… being?

Here’s the thing: love isn’t supposed to make you feel small. But sometimes, it does. Psychologists call it emotional invalidation—when someone’s actions or words chip away at your sense of self. It’s not always loud or obvious. It’s the subtle stuff. The eye-roll when you share a dream. The “you’re too sensitive” when you call them out. Over time, those moments pile up, and you start questioning your worth. I read somewhere that love should expand you, not contract you. That stuck with me. Because looking back, I realized I was dimming my own light to keep his shining.

It’s weird, isn’t it? How we can cling to love even when it hurts. I stayed in that relationship longer than I should’ve, convincing myself that his “I love you” meant he saw me, all of me. But love isn’t just words—it’s actions, respect, the way someone makes you feel when you’re just being you. I remember the day I left. It was raining, and I stood outside that apartment, my stuff crammed into a duffel bag, feeling both terrified and free. I didn’t have all the answers, but I knew I couldn’t keep shrinking.

I see it all the time now, in little moments. The woman at the grocery store, her shoulders hunched as her partner snaps about her choice of cereal. The friend who stops singing karaoke because her boyfriend teased her voice. These aren’t big, dramatic stories—they’re quiet ones, the kind that unfold in everyday life. And they make me wonder: how many of us are carrying love that feels like less? How many of us are settling for a version of love that doesn’t let us grow?

I’m not saying every relationship needs to be perfect. God, no. Love’s messy, full of mistakes and missteps. But there’s a difference between growing together through the chaos and letting someone’s love make you feel like you’re not enough. I think about that 22-year-old me, sitting on that couch, and I want to tell her: You’re allowed to take up space. You’re allowed to want a love that feels as big as you are.

So, here’s my question for you: What does love feel like to you? Does it lift you up, make you feel seen, or does it—sometimes, just a little—make you feel small? I don’t have all the answers, but I know this: you deserve a love that feels like more, not less. And maybe, just maybe, the first step is believing you’re worth it.