Learning To Accept Love Unconditionally
Words by Candi Barbagallo
My dad was a career truck driver before he retired. When I was little he’d bring me small treasures he’d find along the way. Every now and then they were obvious gifts purchased at truck stops, but those aren’t the things I remember so well. What I remember are the things he stumbled upon that made him think of me. A small red plastic paintbrush was one of the notable things, but my favorite was the head of a Ken doll he produced from his shirt pocket and placed in my small hands as he smiled down at me. He’d found it in the seat of his cab, his home away from home, and was excited to share it with his littlest girl. There were black streaks through the head’s rubber hair, likely grease from the metal parts of the seat, despite his best efforts to clean it. I had little use for the bodiless trinket, but I tucked it away in a wicker basket among the tiny shoes and dresses Barbie wore on her dates with any one of the fully-formed Ken dolls in my cache.
I cherished that little token as a silent testament that I was known, I was loved, and I was thought of. And this is the way I learned to give love. My parents weren’t the type to show up at your door with chicken soup if you had the flu, nor were they the type to ask about what’s going on in your life; these kinds of things felt like intrusions. They were the slow and steady, come-through-in-the-clutch, give-you-the-shirts-off-their-backs type and I’d like to think of myself this way too.
So when a close friend told me her ability to give wasn’t reciprocated in our relationship I was confused, indignant, and hurt. Due to my napping toddler I’d missed the party to celebrate her second pregnancy and she was understandably upset, but it seemed the things I’d done privately to celebrate her life change had gone unnoticed. It seemed the small tokens and trinkets and treasures offered along the way didn’t register on her radar. They hadn’t been enough and she felt I’d been checked out. I felt awful and apologized sincerely for her hurt because it was valid, all feelings are, then I attempted to defend myself and remind her of the ways I’d offered friendship and support. I’d raided my departed mother’s closet for clothes she could wear during her pregnancy. I’d offered the beloved cashmere hat my little one wore his first two winters. I asked about every doctor appointment I was aware of, and I offered to watch her toddler during those appointments.
Unfortunately what she needed from me was direct and obvious attention and enthusiasm and I’d dropped the ball. She needed me to ask how her pregnancy was going, how the planning was coming, and to show up to that party. She wasn’t very eager to accept my apologies and didn’t speak to me for two weeks. During that time I did a lot of self-reflection, crying, and berating of myself. Surely I deserved the silent treatment, so I decided I was a terrible selfish person, a bad friend, and I became depressed. Then angry. Then relieved. But ultimately, as I searched for the lesson, enlightened.
The Golden Rule is drilled into us from the time we are verbal, but people don’t always want to be treated the way we do. Oftentimes they need something different from us and sometimes we fail to recognize that. I treated my friend the way I wanted to be treated. I’d hated my pregnancy constantly being the topic of conversation so I didn’t bring hers up much. I erroneously assumed that if she wanted to talk about it she would. She assumed if I cared, I’d ask. I knew that what I had needed more than anything was people showing up after my baby came, so that’s where I assumed she needed me. She needed me at the celebration. I felt awful I got it all wrong, but I started to wonder whose gestures of love didn’t blip my radar the way mine hadn’t hers. Who did I hold at fault for not loving me exactly how I needed them to, all the while unable to see them loving me in the ways they knew how?
The answer came loud and clear: my husband. We often hear how important it is to learn our partner’s love language so we can become adept at speaking it, but what we frequently overlook is the importance of learning another’s love language so we are capable of hearing it and receiving their gifts. I was so often willing to accept the ways others showed me love even when it fell short of what I needed from them, including my upset friend, but not my husband. I’ve expected him to know me well enough to always get it right, but no one can do that. No one can always get it right, but if we know someone loves us we have to trust they are doing their best to show us. Their best might not be enough every time, but if it’s enough enough of the time they deserve to be let off the hook when they get it wrong. In marriage, I thought that being all in meant giving my best to my husband, but that is only half of the equation. I didn’t understand that receiving love isn’t always effortless, it takes as much work to accept love unconditionally as it does to give it. I didn’t recognize the ways I was sabotaging our relationship by not only being unwilling to receive his best when it’s not up to my standards, but actively rejecting it. Needless to say, no marriage can thrive in such a dynamic.
My relationship with my husband is improving after this revelation, though the relationship with my friend never fully recovered. Perhaps my best wasn’t enough enough of the time, and that’s okay. It doesn’t make me wrong or bad or guilty, I simply belong in a different compartment in her life and I’m grateful for the lesson. I’ll work harder to notice how the people in my life show up for me and I’ll do my best to mirror them, but I’ll also hold dearest the ones who cherish the small trinkets and treasures I offer them along the way. They are the ones who know me and accept me in all my shortcomings. They understand that I’m always behind them even when I’m not noticeably in front of them. They know that I might not always ask how they’re doing, but that I will always come through in the clutch and I’ll be the first to give them the shirt off my back (or from my beloved mother’s wardrobe).
About the Author:
Candi Barbagallo is a writer, boy mom, crafter and personal growth enthusiast. She values synchronicity, authenticity, and a healthy dose of cynicism. When she’s not chasing a toddler, she’s drinking coffee, trying to sleep, and daydreaming about all the things.