wilted gardens don’t bloom twice  

if there's something i've learned—
something that’s quietly carved itself
into the corners of my heart—
it’s this: relationships, all of them,
are a dance of effort.

not just a gift from one hand to another,
but an offering from both,
meeting in the middle.

friendship, love, connection—
they don’t survive on one-sided energy.
they starve in silence
when one gives endlessly
and the other just takes,
without even realizing the weight
they’ve placed on someone else’s spirit.

i've been the giver.
the one who reached out first.
who remembered birthdays,
sent check-in messages,
made space
even when i barely had room for myself.

and for a while,
i told myself love was supposed to be unconditional.
that effort meant nothing
if it came with expectations.

but here’s the truth
no one likes to say out loud:
mutual effort is not a luxury,
it’s a necessity.

love is not proven
in how much you can endure,
but in how balanced the exchange becomes.

a relationship where only one person tries
is not love.
it's a performance.
and no one can dance forever
with tired feet.

people will tell you
that if you love someone,
you keep showing up.
but what they forget to say is:
someone who loves you
will meet you at the door.

so if you're always the one knocking—
maybe it’s time to stop
and listen to the silence on the other side.
maybe that silence is the answer.

“reciprocity is the language of real connection.
without it, you're just echoing into a void.”
“you can’t water a garden alone
and expect it to bloom with someone else's flowers.”

we owe it to ourselves
to stop shrinking our needs
to fit into lopsided relationships.
to recognize that healthy love
doesn’t leave you depleted.
it pours into you
as much as it asks from you.

and sometimes,
walking away is not giving up—
it’s giving yourself back.