The Valentine’s Day That Was Never for Me—Until Now

For years, Valentine’s Day wasn’t about romance—it was about logistics. About managing a thousand little details just to have what other couples took for granted: a dinner out.

I had to plan everything.Make a reservation that worked around our routine.Cancel staff if we were staying out past 6:30.

Then came the actual outing:Helping him get dressed.Making sure everything he needed was packed—medications, supplies, extra wipes, sometimes even a change of clothes just in case.Transferring him to the vehicle.Driving, because I was always the driver.Getting him into the restaurant, hoping there were no stairs, no tight spaces, no awkward layouts that made maneuvering impossible.

Once we were there, I wasn’t just his date. I was still his caregiver.I cut up his food.I watched to make sure he didn’t choke.I wiped his hands, his face.I handled the bill because he couldn’t.

And when dinner was done, it wasn’t over. There was no lazy, romantic stroll, no easy return home. There was:Transferring him back to the car.Getting him inside.Helping him undress.Doing his night routine—changing, toileting, positioning him properly so he’d be comfortable.And finally, after all of that, maybe then I could breathe.

By that point, I wasn’t basking in romance. I was exhausted.

And let’s be honest—Valentine’s Day is just another way to spend money and add pressure on already exhausted people. As if life isn’t demanding enough, we’re supposed to carve out time, energy, and money to prove something? To show love in a way that fits into a perfect, scripted box?

No thanks.

I used to put so much pressure on myself to make it feel normal. To make Valentine’s Day happen. To keep up the illusion that we were just like everyone else, that we still had the kind of love that came easy.

But it wasn’t easy. And it wasn’t romantic.

And now? Now, I don’t do that to myself anymore.

Instead, I spent the afternoon with Shawn, and it was really nice—easy, simple, no pressure. We had desserts, snuck in a couple of drinks, and did a Valentine’s word search. He won, of course. It was lighthearted, just enjoying the moment for what it was, not what it should be.

Then, in the evening, I took myself out for dinner. I got dressed up—not for anyone else, just for me. I walked into that restaurant with a level of confidence and self-love that I have been healing through for a long time. And you know what? I felt magical.

Because love isn’t about suffering for someone else’s comfort. It’s not about forcing moments that drain you just to keep up appearances. Love is about how you feel. And for the first time in a long time, I felt radiant. I felt whole.

With Shawn in long-term care, Valentine’s Day looks different. There’s no rushed planning, no exhausting execution of a night that was never really about me. And I’m not scrambling to fill the space with something that feels like love, because I’ve finally learned—I am surrounded by love.

Not the kind I used to force, but the kind that holds me up.

The friends who have been there through my hardest days, who have supported me at my lowest.The love of my children, the people who remind me I am never truly alone.

So this year, I’m not spending Valentine’s Day making things easier for someone else. I’m spending it celebrating myself. Because if I have to do it all myself anyway, I might as well do it for me.

Love has always been here. It just took me a long time to see it.

And this year, I felt it—in a quiet afternoon with Shawn, in a solo dinner that was just for me, and in the love that has surrounded me all along.