Maybe I Should Settle For Less: The Cost of Refusing to Accept the Bare Minimum Love

By Juliet Obaniyi

Some days, I wish I were okay with the barest minimum of love. 

I wish I hadn’t thought I was worthy of authentic love and had just let myself be happy with backhanded compliments. I wish I didn’t have my own definition of love and simply accept the kind of love handed over to me by others. I wish I didn’t desire the love that is fully present. 

On days like today, when I stand outside my brother’s house and watch a couple hand in hand, with the man’s attention fully given to the phone in his hand. While his woman’s nudging gaze begs to be looked upon. 

I wish I didn’t love myself enough to think I deserve someone who will be fully here with me. 

On days when I read Facebook posts about women narrating the most vile things anyone could do to a loved one, and they end their stories with ‘…But I love him, what do I do?’ 

I regret not being broken enough to be used as a practice equipment for tough love, dysfunctionality, and everything in between.

Why do I have to love myself enough to choose me?

On such days, I wish that I didn’t think I deserved so much from life.

I wish I hadn’t refused to let it take more than it ought to take from me and give me whatever it deems fit. 

I wish I weren’t relentlessly guiding my peace of mind. 

Why couldn’t I just let it all go? Take whatever comes.

Moreover, love is blind.

Why couldn’t I fall helplessly into the puddle of love?

Even twirl and wiggle like a mad woman on the streets of Ikorodu. 

Why do I have to be healthy enough to desire the functional kind of love?

Why do I have to love myself enough to say no to dysfunction?

The truth is, self-respect is a heavy gift. It doesn’t always feel like empowerment. Sometimes it feels like loneliness. Sometimes it feels like choosing silence over half-hearted conversation, or going to bed alone rather than curled up beside someone who makes you feel lonelier still.

There are days when I ache for the simplicity of surrender. To simply allow myself the warmth of another person, even a cold warmth. 

Why couldn’t I just look away from the dysfunction and let the chaos numb me? 

Why couldn’t I let “love is blind” wash away every red flag, every dismissal, every bruise to my spirit?

But then I remember: love is peace. Blindness isn’t the same as peace. 

Peace is not found in lowering the bar until your worth disappears beneath it. Peace is the quiet of knowing you protected your joy, even when it cost you company.

Maybe I should settle for less, but I can’t. Because every time I try to imagine it, I see the me I’m throwing away in the midst of it all. And she deserves more than that.

Loving yourself first isn’t always glamorous. It doesn’t always feel empowering. Sometimes it looks like tears on the pillow, unanswered messages, or a table set for one. But beneath it all, it holds the promise of something better.

And that’s why, even on the days when it feels like too much, I keep choosing me. I keep choosing the part of me that screams to be loved as I would love, loudly. To be gazed upon with fire in the eyes of my beholder. To be held by a warm heart, panting and zealous to love me fully, wholly.