It’s Valentine’s Day.

And I’ve been thinking about something I wrote in the first newsletter of 2026, one of my prayers for you this year: May all the lover girls meet healthy, fulfilling, nurturing love. In all the forms it can take.

I still mean that.

Even though we both know this day is dressed up in capitalism and pink glitter, it still has a way of reaching places we didn’t plan to feel. Valentine’s Day can unearth things.

• Some of you are celebrating with the love of your life. Your partner. Your person. And I love that for you.
• Some of you are living through your first or tenth Valentine’s Day after losing someone you loved deeply.
• Some of you are navigating your first or tenth post-divorce.
• Some of you are here again, single. Still waiting. Still hopeful. Still asking quietly, When is it going to happen for me?

That quiet longing can feel heavy. The hope. The prayer. The wondering.

And I just want to say this to you like a friend would:

You are not holding yourself up alone.

You are supported by the ground beneath you.

By breath in your lungs.

By the universe around you.

By people who may not be romantic partners but who love you deeply.

By the version of you that has survived every February 14th before this one.

There are many things in this life we may have to let go of. But love should not be one of them. You have to believe in love until your last breath.

Not fantasy love.

Not performance love.

Not the Disney version.

Not the love that sweeps you off your feet and leaves your nervous system dysregulated.

I’m talking about real love.

Honest love.

Healthy love.

Life-changing love.

And here is the part we don’t say out loud enough:

It may not look the way you imagined.

It may not be forever.

It may not come with butterflies.

It may not feel like falling.

It may be quiet.

Steady.

Slow.

Firm.

It may feel like your body is at ease.

It may feel like standing more firmly on your own feet while someone stands beside you, not carrying you, not rescuing you, not overwhelming you.

Love might feel like clarity.

Like safety.

Like being able to breathe fully in someone’s presence.

The magic might not be fireworks.

The magic might be regulation. The safety you feel with your body.

In your body.

The ability to receive and share love without bracing for impact.

And if today feels tender for you, let it be tender.

But let it also remind you:

You are enough.

You are here.

You are love.

Not because someone chose you.

But because you exist.

A Gentle Journaling Prompt for Today

• Where in my life am I already experiencing love, even if it’s not romantic
• What does healthy, steady love actually feel like in my body?
• Am I open to love looking different than the fantasy I was sold?

Take your time with it.

And if today feels heavy, text a friend. Light a candle. Go on a walk. Put your hand on your chest and breathe.

We are still believing in love.

I am still believing in love.

All of it.

Dr. Alice