I've sat across from someone saying exactly what you're feeling right now; the word “devotion” makes most of us uncomfortable. It conjures images of saffron robes, silent monasteries, or a kind of fanatical gleam in someone’s eye. It feels…extra. Something for the saints and the martyrs, but not for those of us navigating grocery store aisles, messy divorces, and the relentless ping of a smartphone. We’ve been taught that love is a feeling, a spark, a lightning strike of chemistry that either endures or it doesn’t. We see it as a noun, a thing to be found, held, and hopefully not lost. This is a lie. A dangerous one. It’s the lie that keeps us swiping, searching, and perpetually dissatisfied, wondering why the great love of our life feels so…conditional. It’s the lie that has us believing that the epic bond we crave is a matter of luck, not practice. The real wound isn’t a lack of love. It’s a lack of **devotion**. Not the grand, performative kind. The quiet kind. The cellular kind. The kind that lives in the body, in the small, repeated, often unseen acts of turning towards, instead of away. The kind that builds an unbreakable