The mystical poet Rumi’s wisdom on divine love reminds us that the wound is where the light enters. You call it love, but it feels like a raw, open wound, doesn’t it? That constant, gnawing anxiety in your gut when they don’t text back immediately. The way you contort your own needs, your own soul, into a pretzel to keep the peace, to keep them close. You’ve become a human barometer, constantly measuring their moods, their approval, their slightest shifts in energy, because your own sense of safety depends on it. This isn’t love, beautiful soul. This is a hostage situation, and you are both the hostage and the guard. You apologize before you even speak. You say “yes” when your whole body is screaming “no.” You’ve lost track of where you end and they begin. Their dreams have become your dreams, their problems your problems, their happiness the only currency you value. You have abandoned the holy ground of your own being to stand guard in the barren wasteland of their approval. And you are starving. Starving for a love that doesn’t require you to disappear. Starving for a connection that doesn’t demand your soul as payment. This pattern,