Valentine’s Day feels different this year.
Not bad. Just… aggressively unromantic in a very real-life way.
See, my husband was supposed to take me to a fancy Brazilian BBQ restaurant. He had plans. Like actual plans. We talked about it, hyped it up, mentally prepared our stomachs. Instead, this Tuesday, he had an emergency appendectomy.
So rather than endless skewers of grilled meat, Valentine’s Day this year looks like soup and sandwiches. Love that for us.
Every year, though, my husband somehow manages to surprise me. Balloons. Roses. Chocolate. Some sort of “ta-da” moment that lets me know he thought about it. This year, he physically couldn’t do any of that. The man can barely move without wincing.
Or so I thought.
Turns out, he conspired with our oldest daughter. A full covert operation. Balloons magically appeared. A cookie cake showed up. I had absolutely no clue. Not even a suspicion. Honestly, the audacity of pulling this off while recovering from surgery deserves recognition.
The funny part is, I would have been perfectly happy just sitting on the couch, watching Netflix with my husband, eating soup, and calling it Valentine’s Day. No surprises required. No balloons needed.
And yet, even while barely mobile, he still found a way to show up. To make me feel loved. To make sure the day didn’t pass without intention.
Valentine’s Day has always felt like a loud holiday to me. All the grand gestures, the reservations, the perfectly curated romance can make quiet love feel invisible. But this year made it clear that love was never about the spectacle.
It is about the small, mundane things. The unglamorous moments that don’t make it onto Instagram. The teamwork. The kindness. The intentional “I still thought of you,” even when life throws a wrench into the plan.
Love is soup and sandwiches.
Love is secret balloon missions.
Love is a cookie cake and a husband who refuses to let Valentine’s Day pass without doing something, even if he has to outsource it.
This Valentine’s Day does not look like the movies.
It looks like sweatpants.
It looks like recovery and rest.
It looks like choosing each other in the quiet, ordinary moments.
Marriage is realizing love isn’t the big plans you make, it’s the effort someone still shows when the plans fall apart.
Flo writes about real life, real love, and learning that soup and sandwiches can be romantic. Usually found overthinking, journaling, or convincing herself she doesn’t need more candles.