I watched Baldoni’s movie some time ago and heard a song there that stayed with me. It has a catchy, powerful message, but I could have sworn I recognized something familiar and toxic in it. I listened more carefully and found myself inside it.
“I’m gonna love the hell out of you…,” sings Lewis Capaldi.
My mind immediately went to the literal translation. What does it mean to love someone until the hell comes out of them?
The expression was originally used in connection with extreme disciplinary beating. It says, “I’ll beat the hell out of you.” And so, if you can beat the hell out of someone, why couldn’t you love it out instead?
He also sings: “I’ll take all the pain that you’re going through…”
With that line, I fell backward into my past like into a dry well without a bottom. God, how many years of my life did I spend believing I could take on the pain of those around me? That I could free them from hell and all their demons?
“You got your demons… I’ll get you through if it’s the last thing I do.”
For a lifetime I believed that if I had also been on the dark side of the moon, if I knew what it was like and had made it out, I could pull someone else out of hell too. That my experience and my deep, self-sacrificing love qualified me to save. That empathy gave me godlike powers. That I would manage to save someone, even if it were the last thing I did. I lived as if I were an emotional sponge, obligated to absorb whatever hurt in others. Thank God circumstances forced me to stop. Because, just like Capaldi says, I truly would have died trying.
I am not saying I do not believe in the power of love. I believe in human bonds that create space for healing. But I have lived in every cell of my body the truth that no one, no matter how much they loved me, could remove the dark parts from inside me. And neither could I, no matter how much I loved and sacrificed for someone dear, absolve them of suffering or chase away their demons.
I even believe that without love we would be lost as a species. But what I did not know for almost forty years is that no love on earth, no matter how great, performs a transplant of suffering. It does not move pain from one body to another. I cannot exorcise anyone’s demons, no matter how well I know them.
“I’ll bring you heaven if that’s what you need.”
I have never wanted that more fiercely for anyone than when I became a mother. God, how I wish it were possible to take all my children’s pain and give them paradise in return. That is where I would want to take everything. The fear, the shame, the helplessness, the suffering. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot. And not because I do not love them enough.
“You brought grounding when I had lost it.”
Yes. That I can do for my children. I can be with them in suffering. I can hold their hands in the middle of storms. I can be their anchor. But I cannot spare them pain, heartbreak, illness, betrayal. I cannot negotiate with life on their behalf. I cannot transfer my lessons directly into their minds. All I can do is be there, no matter what they are going through.
For a long time I confused love with salvation. I believed that if I failed to pull someone out of their hell, I had failed. That I had not loved enough. That I needed to stay longer, give more, endure more.
Now I know something else. Love does not come with a guarantee of results. It has no success clause. I offer it. That is all. Sometimes it is enough, sometimes it is not. And the outcome is not the measure of my love.
For me, love is no longer a rescue contract signed with God. It is not a magical transfer. It is not an exorcism ritual performed with my arms.
Love means not running away when the storm begins and nothing about the relationship is “Instagrammable” anymore. Love is presence that does not boast. It is a hand you feel there, steady, while you tremble. Without promises that “it will pass quickly.” Without the lie that I will save you.
Love is being able to hold you close without losing myself. Being able to say “I see you” and at the same time “this is as far as I go.” Because real love has limits, not just wings. Love is being a reference point, a home, giving you a place where you can rest your head for a moment, and then letting you walk on with your pain, your lessons, your path. Without placing your cross on my shoulders and declaring myself your savior.
I deeply wish to remain aware that I cannot save. To stay with myself like this. Simple. Without being a heroine. Without a cross. Just a human being, loving.