For most of my life I’ve been told I’m not normal. Not normal for being transgender, not normal for the way I bond, not normal for the way I love, not normal for the way I attach myself to people with a kind of devotion that apparently needs diluting. I’ve spent years hearing that I should be “more like this” or “less like that,” as if there’s a template for being human and I somehow missed the memo.

Here’s the truth: I have a weakness — or so I’ve been told — but it’s also a superpower depending on who’s receiving it and how they choose to frame it. My so‑called weakness is that I bond through service, through care, through devotion. I’m wired to look after people. I know exactly where it came from. I was given up for adoption at fourteen days old, and when you start life like that you learn quickly that you have two survival strategies: scream your head off, or smile and become exceptional at meeting other people’s needs. Make them laugh, make them tea, make yourself indispensable. It’s not manipulation — it’s instinct.

But like every strength, it comes with a shadow. Because I bond the way I do, I can become dependent on the relationship itself. I don’t function brilliantly without an outlet for that care. Psychologists have their frameworks and matrices and theories, and I’m sure they’d happily stick me in a category. But honestly? Stuff them. I’m over fifty. I know who I am. I like to serve. I like to be the change I wish I’d seen. I like to mother — not in the way some feminists would call demeaning, but in the way that says, “I see you. I care for you. I hold you with my whole soul.” And yes, of course that comes from wanting to be mothered myself. That’s not shameful. That’s human.

Now, this is the part where the modern world rolls its eyes. We live in an age of “live your best life,” “solo adventures,” “self‑care,” “self‑love,” and relationships as optional cherries on top of a perfectly curated cake. But you can’t have your cake and eat it. If you want comfort, you don’t get it from bungee‑jumping in Peru after a month of “finding yourself.” Someone told me recently they were still in therapy for childhood stuff, so they took a month away from their wife to “find themselves.” I asked if it worked — if they were healed, grounded, done with therapy. They said no, but the trip was amazing. And all I could think was: you left your wife, your partner, your ground zero, your comfort, to go chase something you already had at home.

The long and short of it is this: it takes all sorts to make a world. Some people genuinely don’t want breakfast in bed, or their lunch made, or a cup of tea waiting when they get home, or a foot rub after a long day. Some people find that suffocating. And that’s fine. But that’s who I am. That’s what I offer. That’s what I provide. Not because I’m a mug or a pushover — I’m not — but because it’s my nature. It’s my wiring. It’s the way I love.

So why change? Why contort myself into whatever shape an algorithm or influencer says I should be? Why pretend I’m someone who thrives on independence when I thrive on connection? Why deny the part of me that wants to make people comfortable, cared for, held?

Why?

Which Brings Me to Something Bigger

Maybe this is the real question underneath all of this: what does it even mean to be human anymore? We talk so much about “self‑care” and “self‑love” that we’ve quietly rebranded selfishness as enlightenment. We’ve convinced ourselves that independence is the highest virtue, that needing nothing and no one is the ultimate goal. But is that humanity, or is it fear wearing a very polished mask. Because there’s a fine line between knowing yourself and protecting yourself so fiercely that no one ever gets close enough to matter.  I wonder sometimes if care, devotion, and love have become unfashionable not because they’re outdated, but because they’re terrifying. To care is to risk. To love is to hand someone the sharpest part of you and trust they won’t use it. Maybe people aren’t rejecting devotion because it’s “too much,” but because they’re scared they don’t have enough to give back. Maybe they’re scared to receive it too — because receiving love means admitting you need it. And perhaps that’s the quiet truth we’ve forgotten: love only means something when you risk something. Without risk, it’s just sentiment. With risk, it’s human.