Field Notes from Ep. 2 - Love, timing & the stories we tell ourselves with my husband, nick brown

I remember sitting on my couch the night before our second date, staring at my phone, rereading our messages. They were easy. Effortless. Full of curiosity, teasing, and those little in-between moments that make your heart flutter. But underneath the excitement, I felt something else creeping in—fear.

Not because I didn’t want to go. But because I did.

Because I could feel it already.

The shift. The way life bends when something important is about to happen.

I didn’t know then that this was the man I would marry. That we would sit across from each other, years later, and tell the story of how we met, how we almost got in our own way, how we chose love—again and again.

But I did know something.

I knew I was standing at the edge of something that could change me.

And that scared me more than anything.

Love & The Stories We Tell Ourselves

We all come to love carrying something—beliefs we’ve inherited, past hurts that still hum beneath the surface, stories we don’t even realize we’ve been telling ourselves.

For me, love had always been a lesson in holding on too long. A pattern of staying, of trying, of bending myself into the shape of what I thought love required.

For Nick, love had always been a lesson in letting go too soon. Of retreating, of shutting down, of running before the real work could begin.

So when we met, it was almost laughable. The anxious heart and the avoidant one. The girl who had only been left and the boy who had only done the leaving.

And yet, somehow, we stayed.

We leaned in. We challenged ourselves. We sat in discomfort and let the conversations stretch longer than our egos wanted them to.

Because love wasn’t going to be the thing that saved us. But it was going to be the thing that showed us who we were willing to become.

The Truth About Readiness

One of the biggest myths about love? That you’ll know when you’re ready.

We think love should arrive neatly—at the right time, under the right conditions, when we are fully healed and capable of receiving it.

But love rarely waits for readiness. It simply asks if we are willing.

Willing to meet it as we are—messy, uncertain, scared.
Willing to let it change us.
Willing to surrender to what we don’t yet know.

When I met Nick, I was ready for my husband. Or at least, I thought I was. I had done the healing. I had written the words in my journal. I had decided I was no longer available for anything less.

And yet, I was still drawn to the familiar—men who were charming but noncommittal, relationships that looked good on the outside but left me questioning my worth.

And Nick? He thought he was just dipping his toes into dating. He thought he was signing up for casual conversation, for getting to know people, for nothing serious.

But his heart was already speaking a different language.

Our subconscious minds knew before we did.

And love? It simply waited for us to catch up.

The Fear of Choosing the Right Person

Nick has always been someone who thinks deeply before making a decision. Especially when it comes to love.

Because to choose love—real, honest, soul-deep love—means choosing a path without an exit strategy.

For him, that was terrifying.

For me, it was everything I had been waiting for.

So we did what most people wouldn’t do. We talked about it.

We sat on my couch on a random Tuesday night, legs crossed, voices soft but steady.

“I’m scared,” he told me.
“I know,” I said.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I trust myself.”

It was never about convincing each other. It was about giving ourselves permission to be in it—fully, honestly, without the need to have all the answers right away.

We get so caught up in the illusion of certainty.

But love doesn’t ask for certainty. It asks for trust.

Trust in yourself. Trust in the timing. Trust in what you feel more than what you think.

And maybe most of all—trust that even if you don’t have all the answers yet, that doesn’t mean love isn’t already here.

Love is an Invitation

If there’s one thing I know now that I didn’t know then, it’s this:

Love doesn’t come wrapped in a perfect moment.
It doesn’t wait for you to be fully healed.
It doesn’t arrive with a guarantee that it will last forever.

Love simply shows up.

And it asks:

Are you willing?

Are you willing to let yourself be seen?
Are you willing to sit with your resistance instead of running from it?
Are you willing to hold both your fear and your desire in the same breath?

Because love is not something you are ready for.

It is something you step into.

Even when you are afraid.
Even when it feels like a freefall.
Even when you don’t yet know where it will take you.

What About You?

I’ll leave you with this:

Where in your life are you mistaking fear for intuition?
What would it feel like to love without an exit strategy?
Are you choosing relationships that reflect your past or your future?

Let yourself sit with those questions.

And when love shows up for you—whether in a partner, a friend, or a quiet moment with yourself—meet it.

Not with certainty.

But with willingness.

With both feet in.

Reflection Questions

→ What would it feel like to love without an exit strategy?
→ Are you choosing relationships that reflect your past or your future?
→ In moments of fear or resistance within your relationships—romantic or otherwise—what strategies have you found effective for fostering open communication and reassurance?

My Reflections

What would it feel like to love without an exit strategy?
It feels like a freefall. But also, like landing. Like my whole nervous system exhaling into someone else’s presence—not because they promised forever, but because I stopped rehearsing the end. It feels like trust, built moment by moment. Not earned all at once, but cultivated slowly—through honesty, awkward conversations, quiet Tuesday night check-ins. It feels like not needing to run. Like, for once, I can stay.

Are you choosing relationships that reflect your past or your future?
For a long time, I didn’t know the difference. My body knew what it had survived, and so it sought the familiar—charm without consistency, love with conditions, connection that made me question my worth. It wasn’t until I started choosing what felt expansive rather than what felt familiar that I realized: My future feels like softness. Like being seen and still safe. Like being chosen, not chased. Nick didn’t feel like my past. He felt like a path forward.

Try This Prompt

This week, write a letter to love. Not to a person. To love itself. Let it be messy, unfiltered, uncensored. What do you believe about it? What do you fear? What have you learned from it? What do you hope for? Then, read it aloud. To yourself. To the version of you who’s still learning how to stay.

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