<![CDATA[Let's Talk About Love - Lydia Waruszynski, M.Ed- couples counseling, sex & relationship education

<![CDATA[Let's Talk About Love - Lydia Waruszynski, M.Ed- couples counseling, sex & relationship education - Blog]]>Sat, 22 Aug 2026 14:27:30 -0400Weebly<![CDATA[August 18th, 2026]]>Tue, 18 Aug 2026 21:13:24 GMThttps://www.letstalkaboutlove.ca/blog/august-18th-2026When Familiarity Becomes Invisibility

Over the past several weeks, I have found myself sitting across from couples who, on the surface, have very different stories about their relationships. Different marriages. Different histories. Different reasons for finding their way into my office. And yet, underneath those differences, I kept hearing something remarkably similar:

They loved each other.

They cared deeply about one another. They had built lives together, raised children, weathered difficult times and become deeply familiar with the person sitting beside them.

And somewhere along the way, something had changed.
Not necessarily love.
Not necessarily commitment.
But Desire.
The person who was once looked at with curiosity had become familiar. Too familiar. The body that once invited touch had become part of the landscape of everyday life. Husband. Wife. Mother. Father. Provider. Caregiver. Companion. Best friend.

And I began wondering whether one of the quietest challenges of a long marriage is not falling out of love, but becoming so familiar with one another that we stop seeing the person who is still there.

The poem that follows is fictional, but the emotional landscape is not.

As I listened to these couples speak about the places where intimacy had changed, I found myself thinking that, in some way, any one of them could have written these words.

Perhaps some of us already have.

Because long-term love asks us to live with a paradox: We want to be completely known by the person we love. And yet desire needs us to remain a little unknown.

There are times when couples need to find their way back to one another. And there are other times when the more courageous work is different...to acknowledge that something has changed, to grieve what once was, and to discover whether there is a new way of being together that can still hold tenderness, companionship, and meaning.

This is not a poem about losing love.
It is about what happens when love remains...but the way we experience it has changed.

We become so familiar
with the Body of another
that we forget
it is still a mystery.

The hand that once awakened Desire
becomes the hand that reaches
for the child,
the coffee pot,
the grocery bag,
the light switch.

We know the body
before we touch it.
We know the history
before it is spoken.
We know the well-worn wounds,
the habits,
especially the places where love
has learned to be careful.

And perhaps this is the quiet danger
of being married a long time...
that familiarity can become
a kind of invisibility.

We stop looking.
Not because we no longer want,
but because we have become certain
of what is there.

Yet Desire
has never been particularly obedient
to certainty.

It asks us to look again.
Not at the body we have known
for ten,
twenty,
thirty years,
but at the person
who has continued to change
inside it.

Curiosity.

The woman beneath the mother.
The man beneath the provider.
The lover beneath the husband.
The woman beneath the wife.

For Desire
requires something marriage
does not always know how to give...
a little distance,
a little mystery,
the recognition
that the person beside me
does not belong to me
just because they love me.

And perhaps that is where
we find each other again:
not in the comfort
of being completely known,
but in the uncertainty
of discovering
that there are still places
inside you
I have never touched.

After all these years,
I look at you
and remember—
you are not mine to possess.
You are yours.

And perhaps
that is where
we must leave it.

Not with the expectation
of wanting you
all over again,
but with the quiet acceptance
that something between us
has changed.

That love can remain
even when Desire does not.
That tenderness can survive
the absence of longing.
That two people can choose
to stay,
to care,
to accompany one another,
without asking the heart
to become
what it once was.

Perhaps this too
is a kind of intimacy:
to stop reaching backward
for the lovers we were
and learn,
together,
a new way
of being.

Acceptance.

lw

]]><![CDATA[Love in the Summer Porch]]>Sun, 12 Jul 2026 11:28:23 GMThttps://www.letstalkaboutlove.ca/blog/love-in-the-summer-porch

I’ve spent years studying love. I’ve taught it, written about it, and dedicated more than thirty years helping couples understand what it takes to build and sustain meaningful relationships. And, may I say, it has been an incredibly rewarding journey.

Yet, like many people who devote themselves to a life’s work, I suppose I believed I had learned a great deal about love...about attachment, vulnerability, communication, and all the many ways we continue to show up for the people and beings we love.

And then this summer, love became my teacher.

When you think about it, our lives are made up of ongoing stories. We all walk around with personal narratives shaped by our experiences with people, places, and events. Some stories are happy, some are sad, some are unforgettable, and some are just unremarkable moments that we may not recognize as meaningful until much later. Still, what gives these stories their deeper significance is the way they shape our identity, our values, our connections, and create a sense of continuity across time.

My understanding of love has always been rooted in that kind of thinking. Never the simplified version of love that arrives in neat beginnings and endings, but rather the more complex, lived version that unfolds through attention, presence, responsibility, patience, and staying in relationship with another being. I’ve come to think of myself as a modern-day warrior of the heart...a phrase I often use with clients...on a mission to reconcile the mystery and the mastery of love.

Love is not simply an idea or a feeling we experience; it is a sustained practice of connection, one that can reshape the way a life is lived. However, for all my years of deliberate practice, I am still surprised by how those lessons actually arrive. If truth be told, we rarely discover them in the moments we expect. Occasionally, they appear in the most ordinary spaces where life unfolds.

For me, that place has been the summer porch.

There is a certain irony in this because I have often described it as my most favourite room in the house, the room where I spend the most time during the summer months. It is where I begin my mornings with my coffee, listening to the gentle babble of the pond just beside the porch, watching the garden change around me, writing my next story, or simply allowing myself the rare luxury of stillness.

This summer, however, that space became something entirely different.

Callie chose this spot as her healing refuge. And because she did, it naturally became mine as well. Without any conscious decision, without any plan, my days began to revolve around that space and around her.

Funny how love works that way.

It rarely arrives with a grand announcement. More often, it enters into the routines of our lives, changing our days before we even realize what has happened.

Even so, as profound as this experience has been, it has not always been easy...because love, especially when it is intertwined with caregiving, asks something of us that we don’t always feel prepared to give.

It asks for patience when we want answers, acceptance when we want control, and the ability to remain present even when our minds are already racing ahead, imagining all the possibilities we desperately wish we could prevent.

The truth is, there were many moments this summer when I felt less like I was sitting in my favourite room of the house and more like I was confined to it.

A prisoner of my porch.

The summer porch, which had always represented relaxation and enjoyment, at times felt like a place where my world had become smaller. The things that usually fill my days...projects, responsibilities, the satisfaction of accomplishing things...were often put aside because caring for Callie became the priority.

And I struggled with that.

I struggled with the feeling that my own life had been placed on hold. I struggled with the guilt of even admitting that, because how could I possibly resent the very thing I would choose again and again: being there for a beloved companion who needed me?

But perhaps that is another truth about love. It does not always feel noble or effortless. Sometimes love is exhausting. Sometimes love asks us to hold two very different feelings at the same time: deep devotion and deep fatigue, gratitude and frustration, tenderness and fear.

The nights were often the hardest.

When the house became still, and there were fewer distractions, my mind seemed to become much louder. I would lie awake listening...not only for Callie’s movements, but also to the sound of my own thoughts. The uncertainty was difficult. The waiting was difficult. The not knowing was difficult. Illness is just difficult.

There were nights when I found myself rehearsing outcomes I could not control, imagining possibilities I did not want to face, and bargaining with God when something we love feels fragile...as we so often do.

Because that is what fear does. It tries to prepare us for pain before pain has even arrived.

And although we are often told to think positively, to focus on gratitude, and to appreciate the good moments, the truth is that our minds are wired to search for danger. We are human beings, after all. Our brains are designed to anticipate, to protect, to look ahead.

The challenge is not to never have those thoughts.

The challenge is learning that we do not have to live inside them.

Sometimes the most compassionate thing we can do for ourselves is simply acknowledge the fear, recognize where it comes from, and then try to return to what is actually happening in this moment.

And in that moment, the bout of panting had passed. Callie was sleeping peacefully beside me.

The pond was continuing its steady lull outside the porch. Morning would eventually arrive.
And morning always brought a different perspective.

I would wake up, and there she would be...ready for breakfast, happy to see me, her tail wagging with that unmistakable joy dogs seem to carry so naturally. Whatever fears had consumed me during the night were suddenly softened by the simplicity of that moment.

Callie wasn’t worried about tomorrow.

She was completely happy to be here.

Perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts dogs give us. They trust us without needing guarantees. They trust us without knowing what the next appointment will bring, what the next test result will show, or what the future holds.

They just trust us.

Illness changes the emotional climate of a family. When someone you love is unwell, everyone starts listening more carefully...for footsteps, for phone calls, for test results, for news you hope never comes.

Sitting beside Callie this summer, I found myself remembering when I was six years old, standing in a hospital stairwell, watching my mother’s face to know whether the world was safe.

Children become remarkably fluent in the language of a parent’s expression. We watch closely. We learn what the smallest furrowed brow, the quiet sigh, the whispered conversation, or the tears held back are trying to tell us. Long before we understand illness, we understand fear.

My father was dying.

On another floor of that same hospital, my younger sister had already spent months being treated for severe asthma and eczema. I can still remember walking down the stairwell to visit her after spending time with my father. I remember her crying, begging to come home with us. We couldn’t take her. She was too sick. And I was heartbroken.

Some memories never really leave us. They don’t stay with us because we revisit them often. They stay because they become part of the way we move through the world. Like DNA.

Looking back now, I don’t think I pieced any of this together while sitting beside Callie. I wasn’t analyzing my childhood or searching for old wounds. I was keeping watch over someone I loved.
Only later did I begin to realize that familiar vigilance had first been learned in those hospital corridors all those years ago.

I look down at Callie now, so far removed from that worried child in the stairwell, and I am struck by how differently she carries her vulnerability.

Even after countless trips to the vet, Callie still gets excited when I say, “Do you want to go for a car ride?”

She doesn’t know where we are going.

She only knows that she is going with me.

That kind of trust is sacred.

And for me, showing up became easier because I was no longer doing it alone. When my husband came home, there was a certain comfort in his presence...not because he took away my responsibility or relieved me of my role, but because suddenly I was no longer the only person carrying the weight of uncertainty.

There is something deeply reassuring about another person entering the porch, checking on Callie, asking how she is doing, sharing in the small decisions and observations that have become such a big part of our days.

Sometimes love is not about fixing what cannot be fixed.

Sometimes love is simply knowing that someone else is standing beside you while you walk through something difficult.

Love is not always found in the grand moments we imagine.

Sometimes it is found in a quiet room beside a pond, in a dog who trusts without question, in a husband who comes home and shares the watch, and in the realization that even when fear takes up more space than we would like, love is still there... asking us to return to the present moment.

P.S. Callie is currently feeling much better, though we still don’t know the exact cause of her illness. We know our watch isn’t entirely over, but for now, we are simply enjoying these brighter days on the porch together.

]]><![CDATA[We Fall in Love With the Feeling]]>Tue, 28 Apr 2026 15:08:17 GMThttps://www.letstalkaboutlove.ca/blog/we-fall-in-love-with-the-feeling

I sat there watching them in that alcove in Venice before I asked permission to take their photo. They told me they were recently engaged.

They looked like they were part of a movie set. So intimate, the lighting just right, their elegant clothes, the way they leaned into each other as if the world had agreed, just for a moment, to hold everything still. A couple who had arrived. Not just in magical Venice, but at a feeling, a knowing. This is it.

Later, my friends and I joked about it. The kind of joking that tries to puncture something a little too perfect before it starts to feel like it might matter. "Don't do it," we wanted to call out across the canal, half laughing, as if love were something you could intervene in before it takes hold.

But underneath the humour was something less comfortable. A recognition I didn't fully want to name: that what we were reacting to wasn't just them. It was something they were activating in us.

And I found myself wondering: why do we fall in love with how it feels, rather than what it is?

In the beginning, the feeling is the experience. You notice everything. The way they speak. The way they look at you. The small details that, later, become almost invisible. Nothing has been repeated enough times to fade into the background.

And in a place like Venice, attention feels effortless. Life slows down. There's nowhere else you need to be. The connection feels complete, almost self-sustaining.

We fall in love under conditions almost designed for attention, and then try to sustain that same intensity under entirely different ones. When it changes, it's easy to feel like something has been lost.
But what we often miss is this: it's not always love that disappears. It's the attention that once made love feel so vivid.

What we mourn, more than we admit, is not the end of love. It's the end of effortless noticing.

In the beginning, attention arrives on its own. It is carried by novelty, by curiosity, by the simple fact that you are still learning someone. You don't have to try. You're just looking.

Over time, that changes. Not because love is gone, but because the conditions that fed it are. The novelty settles. The distance closes. The lack of imagination fills in.

So I watched them in their alcove and thought: the real question isn't whether love lasts.

It's whether we can keep turning toward each other once circumstances stop doing it for us. Whether we can choose to notice, again and again, a glance held a beat too long, a hand reached for without thinking, a moment made slightly more deliberate, on an ordinary Tuesday.

Because Venice will not follow them home. And neither will this version of themselves.

But attention, if it is chosen, might.
.

]]><![CDATA[When Love Gets Lost in Translation]]>Fri, 13 Mar 2026 19:38:23 GMThttps://www.letstalkaboutlove.ca/blog/when-love-gets-lost-in-translation

Lately, in my work with couples, one thing becomes clear almost immediately: the way one person expresses love is not always the way the other receives it. They are both trying, but they are speaking different dialects of the same language. And when those dialects do not match, love gets lost in translation.

The good news? Once couples start to recognize these differences, something shifts. They begin to see that love may already be present in the relationship; it is just being spoken in a language the other person does not quite hear.

Understanding those differences is one part of what I teach. Another is keeping love alive through curiosity, playfulness, and creativity. These are qualities I come back to with every couple I work with because they turn a language into a living, breathing conversation—and, not to mention, they strengthen what all of us want...connection!

The Five Love Languages

Gary Chapman’s love languages framework offers a useful map for how people give and receive love. According to Chapman, people tend to experience love most strongly through one or two of these five “languages”:

Words of Affirmation – Feeling loved through verbal expressions of appreciation, encouragement, or compliments.
Acts of Service – Feeling loved when someone helps, supports, or eases your responsibilities.
Receiving Gifts – Feeling loved through meaningful, thoughtful gifts and gestures that say “I was thinking of you.”
Quality Time – Feeling loved through focused, undivided attention and shared experiences.
Physical Touch – Feeling loved through hugs, hand-holding, or intimate closeness.

Most of us love our partners in the language we ourselves speak. It is completely natural, but it is also how two well-meaning people can end up talking past each other for years.

A few examples from the couples I work with:

One partner cleans the kitchen (Acts of Service) while the other longs to hear, “I appreciate you” (Words of Affirmation).
One partner brings home thoughtful gifts while the other just wants an uninterrupted evening together (Quality Time).

No one is failing. They are just speaking different emotional dialects, and nobody handed them a phrasebook.

Even when you are speaking the right love language, connection requires something more: curiosity, playfulness, and a willingness to keep the conversation fresh. Esther Perel calls it “attention to novelty.” I call it staying genuinely interested in the person across from you—and adding your own creative spark.

Learning Their Dialect

Learning your partner’s love language is not a one-time exercise; it is an ongoing practice. Here’s how to start:

Observe – Notice the moments when your partner lights up emotionally or seems quietly touched.
Ask and Listen – Try: “What makes you feel most loved?” Then listen without explaining, defending, or correcting.
Experiment – Try expressing love in different languages and notice what resonates.
Check In Regularly – People’s needs evolve. A gesture that worked a year ago may need refreshing today.

Bringing Curiosity, Play, and Creativity

Love languages give us the map, but a map is only useful if you keep exploring. Relationships are always evolving, and love thrives not just through the right gestures but through how we show up when we make them.

A playful note, an unexpected hug, or a spontaneous act of service can feel far more powerful than predictable ones.
Moments of curiosity—asking about your partner’s inner world, remembering small details, exploring something new together—build intimacy over time.
Creativity doesn’t have to be dramatic. Small surprises and thoughtful gestures keep desire alive and remind your partner: I still see you. I’m still paying attention.

A Reflection Exercise for Couples:

Try this together:

Each partner identifies their top two love languages.
Share specific examples of what helps you feel loved.
For one week, intentionally offer one daily gesture in your partner’s love language.
At the end of the week, talk about what felt different, what you noticed, and what you appreciated.

This is not a test. It is a conversation, with curiosity, playfulness, and creativity built right in.

In the end, love is never about perfect gestures; it is about generosity. It is always more about presence than just presents. Think of it as learning your partner’s dialect. Even the tiniest hug, or a sticky note that says, “You rock,” can say, “I see you. I love you.”

Boom, translation complete!

]]><![CDATA[Valentine’s the Finnish Way: Love Starts With Friendship]]>Sat, 14 Feb 2026 22:09:37 GMThttps://www.letstalkaboutlove.ca/blog/valentines-the-finnish-way-love-starts-with-friendship

When most of us think of Valentine’s Day, we imagine roses, chocolates, and candlelit dinners for couples. But in Finland, February 14th is something refreshingly different: it’s Ystävänpäivä, or “Friend’s Day.” And it’s all about friendship, not romance.

As a small child, I remember how teachers made sure every child was seen on Valentine’s Day. It was more than just exchanging cards—it was a lesson in consideration, care, and inclusiveness. Imagine what a vulnerable or shy child experiences day after day in the classroom, feeling socially awkward or overlooked. To be noticed, chosen, and included in this simple yet meaningful way? Imagine the joy of that child running home to tell their parents they were remembered and celebrated. I often think of those less confident children and how powerful it must feel to know, even for one day, that they, too, are special.
What Finland’s tradition understands is something I see again and again in my work as a relationship educator: friendship and desire are not opposites; they are deeply interconnected. By celebrating friendship first, children learn something profound that serves them throughout their lives: the best romantic partnerships are built on a foundation of genuine friendship.

Those early classroom lessons taught us about intimacy long before we had words for it: the classmate who shared their lunch when you forgot yours, the friend who waved you over to join their game at recess, the teacher who quietly remembered your birthday. These small acts of recognition and inclusion were teaching us what it means to truly see another person and to be seen in return. Loyalty, playfulness, and being valued for who we are weren’t just nice qualities in a friend…they were the very foundations of all loving relationships.
Yet within that foundation of friendship, something else must flourish for romantic love to thrive. Romance and friendship are often treated as separate realms, yet they share essential ground. The partner who knows how to be your friend, who can laugh with you at life’s small absurdities, who sees you fully (warts and all) and chooses you again and again—this is the partner in whom desire endures. And desire, as I have observed, is nourished not only by closeness and trust, but by curiosity, unpredictability, and the subtle mysteries that keep us intrigued and alive to one another. Friendship provides the safe, steady base; mystery and surprise infuse it with spark.

Finland’s Ystävänpäivä plants these seeds early, teaching children that intimacy has many forms and that the capacity to connect, to care, and to celebrate others creates the foundation for all loving relationships to come. This Valentine’s Day, we can honour that same principle: notice, appreciate, and celebrate the people in your life—friends, partners, colleagues, family—because these small gestures of seeing and valuing each other are what make love enduring, joyful, and ever alive.

And that, folks, is the Finnishing touch! 😄

]]><![CDATA[Listen to Learn, Speak to Be Known Why Communication Is More Than Just Words]]>Mon, 19 Jan 2026 15:59:04 GMThttps://www.letstalkaboutlove.ca/blog/listen-to-learn-speak-to-be-known-why-communication-is-more-than-just-words

Last week, a couple told me, “We just want to be understood, and we want less arguing.” It’s a familiar refrain. Most couples say they want better communication, but what they really want is connection. They want to feel safe, seen, and understood, even when tensions rise.

Communication isn’t about talking more, explaining better, or winning an argument. It’s about creating a space where both people can show up fully, even when fear or frustration is present.

After more than thirty years working with couples, I’ve noticed this: real communication happens when one person speaks to be known, and the other listens to learn. When either part falters, connection falters too.

Why Conversations Go Off Track

Most of us were never taught how to communicate, only that we should. So we fall back on habits that feel natural but often make things worse:

Listening to respond instead of understanding
Interrupting to correct or clarify
Preparing our defense while the other is still talking
Confusing being right with being connected

Underneath it all is something very human: fear. Fear of being blamed, dismissed, or misunderstood. When fear takes over, curiosity disappears.

Speaking to Be Known

Speaking to be known is about sharing your experience without blame. It’s about naming what you feel, talking about impact rather than intent, and owning your emotions rather than assigning fault.

Instead of:

“You never listen to me.”

try:

“When I don’t feel heard, I shut down and pull away.”

This kind of speaking invites understanding instead of defensiveness.

Listening to Learn

Listening to learn is one of the most powerful and least practiced relationship skills. It’s about listening without fixing, defending, or minimizing. The goal isn’t agreement—it’s understanding.

A simple but transformative practice is mirroring: reflecting back what you heard, without judgment or advice. Something like:

“So what I hear you saying is…”

That alone slows things down and signals, “You matter. I’m really trying to understand you.”

Why This Matters

Happy couples don’t have fewer problems than unhappy ones; they just repair better. When people feel heard, they soften. When they soften, they stay engaged. That’s where connection lives.

Communication isn’t about perfection; it’s about responsiveness for connection.

A Simple Practice to Try

Set aside ten minutes. One person speaks for a few minutes about something that matters. The other listens and mirrors back what they heard. Then switch. No fixing, no advice, just presence.

It may feel awkward at first. That’s okay. You’re learning a skill most of us were never taught.

Love Is a Practice

Love isn’t just something we feel… it’s something we do. And like any meaningful practice, it improves with intention. Relationships are where we struggle and grow the most. Learning to communicate well may be one of the most important life skills we can develop.

If you’d like to explore more ways to build resilient, emotionally healthy relationships, you’re welcome to subscribe. I share reflections, research-informed insights, and practical tools to help love feel both meaningful and doable.

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]]><![CDATA[The Quiet Work That Actually Shapes Our Lives...Why noticing the people you love matters more than checking off resolutions]]>Fri, 02 Jan 2026 18:59:14 GMThttps://www.letstalkaboutlove.ca/blog/the-quiet-work-that-actually-shapes-our-liveswhy-noticing-the-people-you-love-matters-more-than-checking-off-resolutions

As another year turns, we feel it again—the push to “do better”. You know:

Lose weight.
Get in shape.
Earn more.
Save more.
Get organized.
Declutter.
Fix what’s broken.
Get a life!

By January, it’s everywhere—the familiar rhetoric of self-improvement. And sure, I get it. Habits can be tracked. Goals can be measured. Closets can be decluttered. But here’s the thing: what actually shapes our lives rarely shows up on a spreadsheet.

Last week, my husband was telling me something important. And I…wasn’t really there. My body was, but my attention had drifted somewhere between the peanut butter jar and whether we were out of olive oil. I only realized it when I blurted, “Wait, what?” …and I completely realized I’d missed the heart of what he was saying.

Yes, this is me! The one who teaches and writes about empathy and presence. And there I was, nodding at the right moments while mentally composing my grocery list. Oops!

Presence Over Perfection

If we pause long enough, another kind of work comes into view—quieter, less measurable, and far more demanding. In our relationships, it’s the work that actually matters:

Empathy.
Presence.
Curiosity.

Empathy asks something simple:

To notice what it’s like to be someone else right now.
To sense what they need, even when it isn’t spoken.
To make space for their experience without rushing to correct, fix, or dismiss it.

It’s selfless work. We can’t control what someone else feels or does—but we can show up. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when we’d rather be thinking about something else.

During the holidays, I saw this pattern play out several times.

A friend was talking about a tough family decision. Halfway through, I interrupted: “Oh, that reminds me of when I…” and launched into my own story. By the time I finished, she had gone quiet. The moment had passed.

Another friend shared some exciting news about a long-awaited promotion. My first thought? “Wow, does that mean longer hours away from your family?” Her face fell. She hadn’t asked for analysis—she just wanted someone to be genuinely excited with her.

And of course, my husband provides daily practice. While he speaks, I mentally calculate what else I have to do that day, nodding in all the right places while my brain runs in a different room. I call this multitasking. He calls it not listening.🫢Being a relationship educator doesn’t mean I’ve mastered empathy; it just means I get to notice how often I miss it.

My dog, by the way, is better at this than I am. She notices everything. When I’m sad, she sits on my feet. When I’m anxious, she leans against my leg. She doesn’t try to fix it. She just shows up. Ever notice “dog” is “god” spelled backward? I think they’re far more evolved than we are. 🙂

These moments are humbling reminders for us all: even those of us who teach empathy slip into distraction, comparison, or problem-solving. And that’s because presence isn’t automatic; it’s a choice, repeated endlessly, one small act at a time.

This work exposes our patterns:

Do we meet one another with generosity—or retreat into transaction?
Do we truly listen—or offer advice too soon?
Do we allow someone else’s joy to shine—or dim it with comparison?

It’s uncomfortable because it asks us to feel what someone else is feeling.
Easier to offer solutions than sit with sadness.
Easier to scroll than hold space.
Easier to interrupt with our story than stay curious about theirs.

The work of empathy doesn’t come with progress bars or achievement badges. It accumulates quietly, in small, often invisible ways:

Putting down your phone while someone speaks.
Remembering a detail they mentioned weeks ago.
Choosing curiosity over judgment when behaviour confuses you.
Even noticing the beings who rely on you—pausing to meet your dog’s gaze, noticing your cat’s presence, honouring the trust and dependence they place in you.

This kind of attention takes courage. Not the courage of goal-setting or self-optimization. The courage to stay present. To bear witness without trying to solve it. To risk discomfort. To choose connection over convenience.

And when we get it right—when we really listen, make space, stay—people remember. Not because we did something grand, but because we made them feel seen rather than tolerated, loved rather than managed.
So maybe the question at the start of a new year isn’t how to become better—but how to be more present.

How can we listen with curiosity rather than waiting to reply?
How can we offer attention without keeping score?
How can we remain in difficult conversations instead of withdrawing?

This work is quiet, humble and often invisible. And yet, it is what sustains intimacy over time. It’s also what I often get wrong…which is oddly comforting. It means I’m still learning…practice makes perfect, right?☺️

Empathy isn’t a trait; it’s a practice.
Attention and care are skills we can cultivate, strengthen, and choose daily.
This is the curriculum of love—not romance, not sentiment—but the steady commitment to showing up for each other.
And it can happen at any age, in any relationship, at any time.
Even when you’ve just blown it. Especially then.

So, where can you pause today?
Or listen a little longer?
Honour someone else’s story?
Or just be present for the lives that intersect your own?

I’ll be over here, trying to remember what my husband just said.
Putting the grocery list away for ten minutes.
And practicing presence, one baby step at a time.😉

How will you practice presence this week? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments!

Happy 2026!

]]><![CDATA[December 19th, 2025]]>Fri, 19 Dec 2025 13:24:28 GMThttps://www.letstalkaboutlove.ca/blog/december-19th-2025

I’ve roasted more turkeys than I can count, fussing over seasoning, stuffing, basting, timing, and whether the potatoes are fluffy enough. You know… the usual holiday stress: trying to appear calm while silently panicking that guests will arrive late—or worse, that I won’t be ready on time, that the gravy might burn, or that a side dish might meet a dramatic demise on the floor. As Julia Child might say: “The gravy can wait. Find the wine :-)”

And then there’s Callie. She’s never patiently sitting in a corner, watching politely. Nooo. She’s completely underfoot, judging my every move with those soft, soulful eyes, weaving between my ankles like a furry game of Twister. Half the time, I’m reaching for the oven, the sink, or a rogue cooking utensil. The other half, I’m praying I don’t step on a paw or trip over her tail. And yet somehow, she’s also the best sous-chef I’ve ever had— no complaints, no critiques, just enthusiastic, gourmet-style quality control. Meanwhile, my husband watches me rearrange serving dishes for the third time and rolls his eyes, as I mutter: "Are you blind…we can't serve our guests in those dishes?"

Chaotic? Yes. Ridiculous? Absolutely. Normal? Well, at least in our home.
But here's what years of hosting holidays and working with couples have taught me: the turkey was never the issue. It's always been about the stuffing.

LOL! Yep, the real problem is in the stuffing. And, I’m not talking about breadcrumbs or sausage. I’m talking about all the invisible, emotional things we pile in there: tiny resentments, unmet expectations, unspoken feelings, subtle slights, issues of power and control, and all those little irritations we pretend don’t exist…but are just waiting to spill over. We all do it. Every single one of us. And unlike the turkey, you can't just carve around it.

Showing Up for Each Other in the Holiday Chaos

It’s easy to get lost in the rush and perfectionism of the holidays. What truly counts is how you meet the chaos together. The deeper question is simply this: How are you showing up today? Are you noticing your partner’s efforts—the small gestures of care? Maybe it's the way they quietly take on a task so you can focus elsewhere, or silently shoulder the stress? Are you allowing space for each other’s fatigue, frustration, or vulnerability? Because these moments are not interruptions...they are opportunities to connect.

The holidays have a way of amplifying tension, especially if you’re retired, both working from home, or suddenly spending more hours together than usual. You might realize that spending extended time in close quarters with the same person is well…intense. Proximity doesn’t automatically create intimacy. What makes the difference is how couples respond to the inevitable stress, i.e., whether they dig in or soften, escalate or repair.

And this is exactly where the magic of repair lives. In the eye roll that turns into a smile. Or the half-apology offered over the sink. Even a quiet reset sealed with a refill of the “cooking” wine:-) The emotional “stuffing” doesn’t have to explode. When noticed and tended to, it can become the place where couples reconnect—not because they got it right, but because they found their way back to each other.

Now stuff that in your Christmas stocking. 😂

Happy holidays, everyone!
Lydia🎄

]]><![CDATA[Remembering through my Father's eyes]]>Tue, 11 Nov 2025 12:47:53 GMThttps://www.letstalkaboutlove.ca/blog/remembering-through-my-fathers-eyes

Every November 11th, I think of my father—not specifically in uniform, not on the battlefield, but in the striped pyjamas of a prisoner of war. He was a Polish soldier, a resistance fighter, a teacher, a writer, and a man who believed that the greatest act of patriotism was not defined by hatred, but by love for truth, freedom, and the dignity of every human being. Every November 11th, on Remembrance Day, we honour the fallen. But remembrance, for me, has always been more than battles, medals, or history books. It is about love, the kind that survives when the world forgets what it means to be human.

In 1944, my father spent Christmas Eve in a concentration camp in Austria. He was one of many prisoners who had nothing left but his voice and his memory of home. Despite hunger, exhaustion, and the ever-present pall of death, he and his fellow prisoners organized a small Christmas celebration. Polish, French, Italian, and Greek voices filled the barracks. The prisoners barely understood each other, but together they sang songs of faith and homeland that rose beneath the ceilings of a place built for cruelty and fear. Even the block leaders and guards chimed in, moved by something that transcended orders and nations.

My father helped create not only a new Christmas but also a new attitude... and hope. There were no decorations beyond a modest tree, no warmth beyond the shared breath of hope. And yet, through music and togetherness, they made something sacred: a cherished memory... an armistice of the heart.

I barely knew my father, as I was very young when he died. But what I did know about him was this: love is not the absence of suffering; it is what allows us to endure it. And his story reminds me that remembrance is not only about mourning the dead soldiers who fought so valiantly for their countries. It is about protecting what they lived for: courage, freedom, and the quiet commitment to keep believing in goodness.

This Remembrance Day, I honour my father not only as a soldier, but as a man who knew that love could still be sung in a place meant to silence it. His story calls us to remember that peace is not given. It is created again and again through compassion, forgiveness, and the courage to keep our hearts open. In remembering him, I remember what it means to be human and the courage to love.

Lest I forget.

]]><![CDATA[Making Time for Love This Thanksgiving]]>Sat, 11 Oct 2025 20:11:01 GMThttps://www.letstalkaboutlove.ca/blog/making-time-for-love-this-thanksgiving

Thanksgiving reminds us that life is not just about the tasks we complete, the emails we send, or the errands we tick off. It’s about the people who make life richer...the family who knows our stories, the friends who know our hearts, the partners who still see us even when we don’t see ourselves anymore.

In the rush of our daily lives, love is not always intentional. It’s easy to assume it’s always there. But love, connection, and gratitude flourish when we pause, look up from our phones, and really show up.

Small actions matter: a touch, a kind word, eye contact, or even recalling one meaningful memory. These moments are the building blocks of lasting connection.

Why not consider taking a moment to share a memory or tell a story from the past, name something you appreciate about someone at the table, sit quietly together, or even remember loved ones who are no longer with you—note how their presence lives on in your hearts. Small gestures like these are the building blocks of lasting connection.

This Thanksgiving, make time—not just for turkey or traditions, but for each other. Laugh. Share a memory. Sit quietly together. Notice not just what is said, but what is felt. Let the presence of those you care for be enough.

Because life’s greatest gift isn’t what’s on the table...it’s who surrounds it. And nurturing these connections, day by day, is the secret to a life full of love.

Happy Thanksgiving,
Lydia

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