Love is blind? Or are we?

We’re all familiar with the phrase “love is blind.”

It’s one of those sayings that slips off the tongue easily, carrying a quiet weight of cultural wisdom.

But what does it really mean?

For a long time, I placed it in the same category as unconditional love — and if I’m honest, I misfiled it. I thought of it as that dangerous, unhealthy space where we excuse or dismiss someone’s behaviour because of an irresistible soul-urge to love them anyway.

It’s not a million miles from the truth, but I see it differently now.

Because when love blinds us, it isn’t always about the other person. It’s about how we gaslight ourselves. How we abandon the quiet, essential love we owe to our own soul.

We see external love in neon lights — bold, blinding, insistent. But the love that’s meant for ourselves? That’s the one we miss. That’s where the blindness truly lies.

Unconditional love, though — that’s something else entirely. That’s understanding. That’s presence. (I’ve written a whole separate piece on that, if you’d like to dive deeper.)

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When I really think back, I see a pattern: the care was rarely, if ever, returned.

I carried myself — and I helped others carry their weight too. Friends. Partners. Family. I held their burdens alongside my own until it outweighed what I could cope with. Only then would I release my own vulnerability and reach for help.

But that was always the breaking point.

Maybe it was because I no longer looked like the strong, supportive one. Maybe my load felt too heavy for them to handle. Sometimes it was illness. Sometimes heartbreak. But the ending was always the same: the moment my cup ran dry and needed refilling, they left.

At one point, I had a sharp realisation.

If their own weight was already too heavy and they needed external support… how on earth could they possibly help me carry mine too? Evidently, very few could.

That awareness sent me into a wrestle with my own vulnerability. Could I allow myself to ask for help? Or was that a part of me I had to keep hidden?

Both feel true. I absolutely trust that I can carry myself through anything. But I also don’t want to close my heart completely. What I refuse to do now, though, is overpour into people who cannot or will not meet me there.

Discernment has become my compass. And yes, sometimes I’ll miss. But I’ve learned the warning signs — the absence of reciprocity, the subtle lack of return energy. At the core, it’s about balance and fair exchange.

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And so, I’ve come to see the truth about those doors I left cracked open.

They weren’t acts of hope. Not really.

Or at least, not the kind I thought.

It wasn’t just a hope they’d return — it was a hope they’d remember me. Remember the love and support I gave. Remember that I was there when their own world was heavy.

Closing the door on someone who is grieving or hurting has always felt cruel to me. But then I hear that voice — “Would they do the same for you?”

And the truth is, they already showed me they wouldn’t. Even if it came dressed up in another story and explained away, the evidence was there.

So why have I been blind to that?

Leaving the door open doesn’t make me a good person.

I am a good person, regardless. I love deeply, regardless.

What it does make me is someone who abandons herself for others — and I am completely done with that.

I’d be insane to repeat an old behaviour and expect a different outcome.

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So now, with clarity, compassion, and love, I’m closing my doors too.

Not angrily.

Not bitterly.

But gently. Consciously.

Because sometimes the most powerful act of love isn’t keeping the door open.

It’s locking it — and coming home fully to yourself.