I have written about my preoccupation with love. As a discipline, or an intentional practice, love continues to bring meaning to my days and keeps me up at night. Quite literally I often find myself awake when I should be sleeping, locked into fictional romances unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, dreaming of the day I will be Kikiola in Honey and Spice, or Stevie in “Really Love”. I am dedicated to my self-proclaimed title as ‘lover girl,’ often at the expense of my immediate reality. At this time of year when love seems to be everywhere yet also nowhere at all, I find myself questioning where my deep rooted commitment to this loving communion stems from.
I have spent much of my life thus far contemplating love, seeking it, and struggling to experience it. Humans are infallible, and so are our attempts at love. I’ve made a lot of mistakes trying to enact love in spaces where it cannot exist, giving out love to people who neither wanted it nor had any for me in return. I ended up pouring out so much of myself that it became unloving, like an unintentional form of self-harm. I’m not aiming for perfect love but I have been working on understanding my faults so I can love better. More purely, maintaining the godly sanctity of love.
I figured my corrupted perspective of love stemmed from a conflicted upbringing, where I internalised lovelessness and thus began to desperately and hopelessly strive to recover from childhood trauma and brokenness. My parents are traditional and raised us to a strict code of conduct. At a young age, immaturity made it difficult for me to comprehend this and their restrictions felt like a denial. From then I became relentless in my quest for love, constantly searching for loving relationships outside my parents, to reassure me I was indeed deserving of it, capable of getting it – I had to believe it was them and not me.
Last semester I navigated an extremely challenging situation on campus, fighting for something I had once loved that just wasn’t nurturing me anymore. When I finally let go the resulting loss caused me to sink into a grief I wasn’t sure I could survive. I am thankful that my obsession with love, despite all the unnecessary hurt along the way, has made me much more attuned to it. In that moment when everything seemed bleak, and I wondered how to heal from the pain I was reassured by the little acts of love I witnessed within the mundane. Like when my suitemates asked me how my day was, or when a close friend stayed up watching Netflix with me—these were unspoken demonstrations of love. Or when my parents answered my panicked calls, no matter what the time, even though they were halfway across the world in a timezone 5 hours ahead, even though I may have been ignoring their texts for weeks prior, even though when I left home months prior things had been tense. When circumstances got really tough all I knew to do was call my parents.
And they were prepared to carry me the instant I reached out. My parents loved me through their prayers. They loved me through their support. I was able to look back and see clearly the lines of love they had sewn into my life.
I saw the love in their overly protective measures – when they made arrangements to look after me even though I didn’t think I needed it and wanted to do things my own way. I saw the love even in their anger and sharp words. Not to say that it was always just—their love is imperfect too—but I saw the love in their expectations of me to be kind, and good and great—and in their disappointment if I ever fell short of that. They loved me by always forgiving me no matter what, and welcoming me home eagerly even if I had chosen to be the ‘prodigal son’.
Sometimes they love me too much, too hard. Like a warm hug that becomes suffocating if the giver squeezes too tight. If they linger too long. Or never let go. Because I’ve not always been good at receiving their love I believed I grew up without it. I was convinced I had never experienced love and was part of a loveless generation. But my parents’ love was right there. Bold, committed to evolving, and unquestioning. I am more grateful than ever for my parents and their love. Not because they had changed and were now uniquely supporting me, or showering me with a love and care previously reserved. I am grateful because I finally understood that they had been supporting me and treating me with love and care my whole life.
At a particularly difficult moment last semester my Dad sent me the following message:
Achele
The strength of an individual is not measured on achievements but in the courage to take difficult
decisions and steps. Today, you have demonstrated that you can focus on what is important to you and
the Lord. Let no one ever make you feel inferior or not good enough. Remember that you were a little
girl that the Lord took from a humble Nigerian family with no sporting or rich background but opened
opportunities beyond our imaginations. You have already inspired many across the world. Yet this is
just the beginning. Therefore hold your head high and go forward with the Lord. Dream new dreams
and goals. Seek the Lord to bless it and the sky is the limit. Go for excellence, not very good.
We love you and you have all our support and prayers ❤️
Dad
In this love letter he made clear the origins of my intense love of love—it is inherited, in my blood, and constantly being reinforced—secured in my genealogy through faith and prayers. Despite all my feelings of distance and misunderstanding towards my parents, when I was at my lowest I ran to them for comfort. And they responded immediately and naturally. Their love emulates what they know of God, and is all I could ever ask from them. I’m so incredibly fortunate for this example in my life, and I now follow their lead as I attempt to love in a way that is authentic and pure.
I don’t say it often even though I should. To my parents, I love you. Thank you for loving me.
Achele Agada ’23 (oagada@college.harvard.edu) is reciprocating the love.