Calm Isn’t Boring, It’s Safe

Confessions of a Late Bloomer Part 11

For a long time, I thought love was supposed to feel like butterflies,
that quickening, that rush, that tingle in your gut that made it hard to breathe.

I thought adrenaline meant attraction.
I thought chaos was chemistry.
I thought if it wasn’t all-consuming, messy, magnetic, heart-racing… it wasn’t real.

No one told me I had learned to confuse anxiety with interest.
That what I was calling spark was often my nervous system flinching.
Bracing.
Trying to survive.

I didn’t know the difference.
I called it passion.
But it was panic.

The ones who gave me whiplash were the ones I chased;
unpredictable, hot and cold, present then gone.
They made me question myself and mistake the uncertainty for a kind of magic.

I kept trying to earn love from people who didn’t know how to give it.
I thought I had high standards.
But what I really had was a high tolerance for emotional discomfort.

Because somewhere along the way, I learned to equate love with aliveness.
And aliveness with the rush,
the spike, the rollercoaster, the fire.

But fire isn’t always warmth.
Sometimes it just burns.

It’s only now, after years of unlearning, that I’ve started to recognize the difference.

The real spark?
It doesn’t set you on fire just to see if you’ll burn.
It warms you.
It calms you.
It lets you exhale.

And maybe at first, that feels… uncomfortable.
Not because something’s wrong,
but because your body is used to bracing.
Used to chasing.
Used to the ache that masqueraded as connection.

Sometimes peace feels unfamiliar before it feels safe.
But listen closely:
That ease? That steadiness?
That’s your nervous system unclenching.
That’s your body saying, We’re okay.

The real thing isn’t a wildfire.
It’s a slow burn.
Not something that ignites and flames out,
but something that builds; warm and steady. Sustainable.
The kind of flame that lights a path, not scorches the ground beneath it.

Real chemistry won’t leave you spiraling.
It feels like presence.
Like peace.
Like staying in your body.

And maybe it won’t knock you off your feet.
But that’s the thing.
The right love won’t knock you down.
It’ll meet you where you stand.

It won’t ask you to chase it, prove yourself, or wait for it to become ready.
It will feel like clarity. Like calm.
Like coming home…
and finding someone already there, choosing.

This is maturity.
Not the kind that shows up in wrinkles,
but in how gently you speak to yourself.
How quickly you walk away from what doesn’t feel good.
How peacefully you let go of the need to be chosen.

Late blooming means you used to confuse peace for boredom…
missing the thrill of uncertainty,
until you realize uncertainty was just your nervous system on edge,
disguised as chemistry.

It looks like learning to trust yourself.
To honor what your body knows before your mind rewrites the story.

It’s understanding that love doesn’t have to arrive in extremes to be extraordinary.

Choosing peace is one of the most rebellious, mature, and quietly radical things a late bloomer can do.
Because it means you’ve stopped trying to fix, to force, to prove.
It means you’ve learned the difference between being seen and being needed.
Between being chosen… and being chased.

And the best part?

It means you’re not mistaking pain for passion.
You’re not mistaking adrenaline for love.
You’re not mistaking almost for enough.

Because when you’ve done the work, the real work,
love won’t feel like a rescue mission.

It will feel like recognition.

Not effortless.
But not confusing.

Not a fire you’re afraid will go out,
but a warmth that stays.

The kind of love that doesn’t ask you to disappear.
The kind that makes space for all of you to stay.

A good kind of love.

Always,
Your Trusted Friend ❤