Valentine’s Day used to mean something different to me.
It meant cards from the kids’ classrooms taped to the fridge. It meant a quick dinner out squeezed between practices and bedtime routines. It meant knowing there was someone who saw me, chose me, and loved me in that quiet, steady way that doesn’t need a spotlight.
When Grief Changes the Weight of a Holiday
Grief has a way of stripping holidays down to their bare bones. Valentine’s Day especially. It shows up loud and pink and heart-shaped, and suddenly you’re very aware of what’s missing. Of the empty seat. Of the text that won’t come. Of the love that once existed in a form that’s no longer here.
For a while, I dreaded it.
I tried to power through. I tried to ignore it. I tried to tell myself it was “just a day.” But if you’re grieving, you know that certain days carry weight whether you want them to or not.
This year, though, something shifted.
The Question That Shifted Everything
Instead of asking, Who will love me on Valentine’s Day?
I found myself asking, Who needs love right now?
And that one question changed everything.
When you’re grieving, it’s very easy — and very understandable — to turn inward. Pain demands attention. Loss is loud. Your heart feels tender, exposed, and tired. Some days just getting out of bed feels like an accomplishment.
But I’ve learned something in this season: staying focused only on what I’ve lost can slowly harden my heart. Not because I’m ungrateful or bitter, but because pain is consuming. It narrows your vision. It keeps you locked inside your own ache.
And while God never rushes grief, He often invites us to move within it.
This Valentine’s Day, I’m choosing to take the focus off what my heart lacks and place it on what my heart can still give.
Because love didn’t disappear when my circumstances changed.
It just needs a new direction.
Loving People Who Don’t Always Show or Share It
There are so many people walking around carrying more than we realize. Widows. Single moms. Divorced women. Elderly neighbors. Teenagers trying to figure out who they are. Friends who are quietly holding things together. People who don’t always show it or share it, but feel deeply all the same.
Sometimes the most healing thing we can do for our own hearts is to notice someone else’s.
Loving others doesn’t erase grief — but it gives it purpose.
And purpose changes pain.
I’m not talking about grand gestures or over-the-top displays. I’m talking about small, intentional acts of love that say, I see you. You matter. You’re not alone.
A physical card, handwritten and mailed, feels almost radical now. In a world of quick texts and emojis, there is something sacred about holding words someone took time to write. Think about who might need that right now. Someone who doesn’t get mail unless it’s a bill. Someone who hasn’t been chosen in a while.
A heartfelt text can carry more weight than we realize. Not the “Happy Valentine’s Day!” kind, but the kind that says, I was thinking about you today. You crossed my mind. I hope you know how loved you are. Those messages linger. They land deeper than we think.
Flowers aren’t just for romance. They’re for encouragement. For remembrance. For saying, Your presence matters. Sending flowers to a friend who’s had a hard year or a woman who’s been strong for everyone else can be a holy act of kindness.
Paying for someone’s dinner, coffee, or groceries can feel small, but it’s often remembered long after. Love doesn’t always need words. Sometimes it looks like covering a bill and letting someone breathe a little easier.
When Love Softens Grief Instead of Avoiding It
And here’s the thing — when we love others from a place of pain, it doesn’t mean we’re ignoring our own grief. It means we’re letting it soften us instead of harden us.
I’ve learned that grief and love can coexist.
You can miss someone deeply and still pour into others.
You can ache for what was and still participate in what is.
You can hold sorrow in one hand and generosity in the other.
Valentine’s Day doesn’t have to be a reminder of what you don’t have. It can become a reminder of who you can be.
For me, that shift has been life-giving.
Instead of bracing myself for the day, I’m leaning into it differently. I’m asking God to show me where love is needed most. I’m reminding myself that my story didn’t end with loss — it just took an unexpected turn.
One verse that keeps coming back to me in this season is this:
“Praise be to the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.”
— 2 Corinthians 1:3–4
There’s purpose even here.
If Valentine’s Day feels heavy this year, you’re not failing. You’re human. But maybe — just maybe — there’s another way to walk through it.
Not by pretending it doesn’t hurt.
Not by forcing joy.
But by choosing purpose.
Because when you step outside your own pain, even briefly, you often find something surprising waiting for you.
Connection.
Meaning.
Healing in small, quiet doses.
Love was never meant to be confined to one relationship or one season. It’s expansive. It multiplies. And it shows up in places we don’t always expect — especially when we’re willing to give it away.
Choosing Purpose When Valentine’s Day Feels Heavy
So this Valentine’s Day, if your heart feels tender, I see you.
And if you’re looking for a way to survive the day — try loving someone else through it.
Sometimes the very thing you think you’re missing is the thing you’re still meant to give.
