The first time I met him, my stomach fluttered so hard I thought I might float away.

I’d always heard that was the sign of the famous “butterflies.” Everyone said it meant you’d found something special.

But weeks in, the butterflies never went away. If anything, they multiplied. They weren’t gentle, happy flutters anymore. They were frantic wings beating against my ribcage, leaving me restless, uneasy.

I told myself it was passion. That love was supposed to feel electric, unpredictable.

But deep down, I knew I wasn’t swooning. I was bracing.

Every text I sent was proofread in my head three times.

Every silence between us felt like standing on the edge of a cliff.

Every smile from him felt like sunlight after days of rain, beautiful, but too rare to rely on.

It took me a long time to understand: those “butterflies” were my nervous system sounding the alarm. Not love. Not safety.

The man who truly loved me didn’t give me butterflies.

He gave me quiet.

When he said he’d call, he called.

When I disagreed, he listened rather than turn away.

When I needed space, he didn’t make it a punishment.

His love wasn’t a performance or a prize to win. It was a steady, open hand that never pulled away when I reached for it.

With him, I didn’t have to measure my words or tiptoe around moods. I could laugh too loudly, cry without apologizing, dream bigger without feeling selfish. My body, the same body that once lived on high alert, finally exhaled.

So when do you know he loves you?

When your heart feels safe in his presence.

When you can rest, not because you’ve given up, but because you’ve finally arrived.

True love doesn’t make you question your worth.

It reminds you of it every single day.

And if the butterflies ever return, they’ll be the soft, fleeting kind, the kind that visit on warm spring mornings, as you are kissed awake. Not the kind that keep you up at night.

-🦩