He Loved My Effort, Not Me

I remember the night I stayed up until 3 a.m., folding tiny paper stars for his birthday. My fingers ached, my eyes burned, but I kept going, imagining his smile when he’d open the jar filled with 365 of them—one for every day of the year. I thought, This is love, right? Pouring yourself into something, giving it your all. But when I handed him that jar, his eyes flickered with a quick “thanks” before he set it on a shelf, untouched. That’s when I started to wonder: was it me he loved, or just the effort I poured into him?

It’s a funny thing, love. You start out thinking it’s this grand, mutual fire—a spark that lights both of you up. I was so sure we had that. I’d write him letters, long ones, spilling my heart onto the page. I’d plan surprise dates to that little diner he loved, the one with the chipped mugs and the jukebox that only played Johnny Cash. I’d listen to him vent about his job, nodding, asking questions, even when my own day had been a mess. And, God, I felt so alive doing it. There’s this quiet thrill in giving yourself away, isn’t there? Like you’re building something sacred.

But here’s where it stings. He’d take it all—my time, my gestures, my energy—and he’d smile, say the right things, pull me close. Yet, something was off. I’d catch him scrolling through his phone while I talked, or he’d forget the little things I’d shared, like my fear of heights or how much I loved the smell of rain. I started noticing the pattern: he loved the things I did. The notes, the plans, the way I’d drop everything to be there. But me? The messy, quiet, dreaming me? I’m not sure he even saw her.

I think about my friend Sarah, who went through something similar. She’d spend hours cooking elaborate dinners for her boyfriend, learning recipes from his mom just to make him feel at home. One night, she burned the lasagna—completely forgot it in the oven while they were laughing about something silly. She was mortified, but he just shrugged and ordered pizza. She told me later, “It was the first time I realised he didn’t care about the dinner. He just liked that I tried so hard.” That hit me like a punch. Was I just a performance to him, too?

You know, it’s easy to get lost in the act of loving someone. You start measuring your worth by how much you can give. I’d catch myself thinking, If I just try harder, plan better, love bigger, he’ll see me. But that’s a trap, isn’t it? The more you pour in, the emptier you feel when it’s not returned. And I was running on fumes. One evening, we were sitting on his couch, and I asked him, point-blank, “What do you love about me?” He paused—too long—and said, “You’re just… so good to me.” Not me. Not my laugh, my quirks, my dreams. Just what I did.

I won’t lie, it broke something in me. Not in a dramatic, movie-scene way, but quietly, like a crack spreading through glass. I started pulling back. Stopped planning every date. Stopped writing those long letters. And you know what? He noticed. Not me, though—he noticed the absence of my effort. That’s when I knew. I loved him more than I loved myself, but he only loved what I gave him.

I read somewhere that love should feel like a mirror, not a one-way street. It’s supposed to reflect back, show you parts of yourself you didn’t even know were there. I think about that a lot now. I’m learning to love myself the way I loved him—fiercely, without holding back. It’s messy, and some days I’m not sure I’m doing it right. But it feels good to try. To wake up and choose me for once.

Have you ever loved someone so much you forgot yourself? I hope you find your way back. I’m starting to.