Finding a Love Story That Lasts

Hint: It doesn't come with a ring...

Mount Rainier - Photo by Intricate Explorer on Unsplash

This isn’t the love story I thought I’d be telling.
It’s not about a man.
It’s not even about a person.

It’s a story born out of fire, and loss, and longing.
Of staying too long, of giving too much,
of being the steward of something that took more than it gave.
But also of beauty.
Of soulprints.
Of meaning made in real time, even when the numbers didn’t add up.

It’s about a hotel in the mountains and bordered by a creek.
A piece of land I loved with my whole heart.
A place I poured myself into—creatively, financially, spiritually.
A place I tried to steward into its fullest, most beautiful potential.

And a place I had to let go of.
Not because I stopped loving it.
But because it stopped being good for me.

I didn’t realize how much I hadn’t grieved it until I was back there unexpectedly this week—walking the old trails, breathing in the scent of the forest, touching the cabins I had refinished with my own hands. It all came rushing back.

And I sobbed.

Because even though I made the “right” decision when I sold it—the logical, responsible, adult choice—I never got to say goodbye with my heart. I signed the papers while out of the country and kept moving. But now, standing there, I could feel the ache of what was lost: not just the property, but the part of me that believed maybe love could be enough to make it sustainable.

Photo by Tate Lohmiller on Unsplash

What no one tells you is that sometimes, even when you love something with your whole heart, it still costs more than it gives. That was true of the hotel. That’s been true of some of my relationships. And those are the hardest goodbyes—when the love is still there, but the life can no longer be built on it.

I’ve wrestled with why it was all so hard. Why, despite the heart and soul I poured into it, the hotel always felt one step from chaos. A forest fire. Two separate mudslides that shut down access. A contractor who fell off the roof—without insurance. An employee who spiraled into crisis and locked himself in one of the cabins. One thing after another. It never let me rest. Never let me breathe.

And yet, I kept showing up.

That’s what stewards do.
What artists do.
What parents do.

We pour into something not because it always makes sense—financially, logically, practically—but because it’s sacred. Because we love it. Because we glimpse what it could become. And because, deep down, we believe that love is never wasted.

I held that business like a priestess at the altar. Not because it was easy. Not because it was lucrative. But because it mattered. I listened for what the land wanted to become—not just what it could produce. And I gave it my care, my creativity, my soul.

But even a priestess reaches a point where reverence alone isn’t enough to shield her from reality.
Where devotion meets depletion.
Where beauty no longer balances the cost.

And now, integrity asks that I tell the whole truth.

I was a fierce steward.
And it cost me more than it gave.

Not everyone will understand that. Some will say, “Don’t dwell. Reframe it. Find the upside.” And I can. I have.

If the fire hadn’t happened, I never would have reached out for help—and I wouldn’t have met someone who, despite how it ended, brought real beauty into my life.

If the chaos hadn’t escalated, I wouldn’t have brought in a management company, which is what eventually gave me the freedom to move to Portugal. To walk the tiled streets of Lisbon with my son. To give him a season of magic that left footprints on his soul.

Maybe, like in The Adjustment Bureau, life wasn’t punishing me. Maybe it was rerouting me—toward something I couldn’t yet imagine.

But this isn’t just a story of revision.
It’s a story of reverence.

It’s not about converting pain into a productivity lesson.
Or polishing grief into a marketing hook.

Because spiritual maturity means holding the full picture:
Meaning doesn’t erase mourning.
Transformation doesn’t cancel tenderness.
And the sacred doesn’t always feel good while it’s happening.

Meaning doesn’t erase mourning. And the sacred doesn’t always feel good while it’s happening.

Yes, I could tell a version of this story that wraps every loss in silver linings.
But that’s not the one I need to tell.

This one is truer.

I was a fierce steward.
And it cost me.

And I would do it again.

Because this—this—is who I am.
Someone who chooses wholeness over safety.
Someone who gives, even when the return isn’t guaranteed.
Someone who turns the ordinary into the sacred—not because it adds up, but because it adds meaning.

Naming grief isn’t weakness. It’s reverence.
Mourning what mattered isn’t a failure of mindset. It’s a soul’s way of honoring what was holy.

Spiritual maturity isn’t tidy.
It doesn’t always look like gratitude or upgrades.

Sometimes it looks like staying when things are hard.
Sometimes it looks like letting go when you still love.
Sometimes it looks like choosing integrity over ease.

This isn’t the love story I thought I’d be telling.
But it’s the one I’ve earned.
The one I carry.

A story of devotion.
Of beauty.
Of letting go.

And of finally being able to say:

This is my story.
It isn’t a tragedy. And it isn’t a hero’s tale.
It’s a story about what I gave to this life.

And that—that is a love story.
A love story that lasts.