The powerlessness in love

“The pain of unreturned love is a reminder that love is a gift, not a transaction.” – Unknown

There's this term I have recently stumbled upon that I haven't been able to shake off:  unrequited love. Sometimes called one-sided love— it’s when one person has strong feelings for someone who doesn’t feel the same way in return. And I think that's exactly where I find myself, loving someone who doesn't love me back, or maybe they do, but it's not in the way I need, not with the same clarity, not with the same depth. It's hard to say, all I know is that I'm loving into silence, into uncertainty, into the unknown.

This is a kind of love that is not loud, it's not demanding, and it does not ask for too much. It just stays quiet, it's patient, and as time goes on, it begins to feel like a slow surrender, a powerlessness you never expected to feel. It's not dramatic either; it's just...waiting. Hoping, praying, and sitting with the ache of love that has nowhere to land. 
And still I love them, still I want the best for them, still I don't want to stop. I just wish it did not hurt so quietly.

There's a strange stillness that comes with unrequited love — something deeply humbling about it, a kind of humility you never asked for. You begin to realize how little control you actually have. You can’t force someone to feel what you feel. You can’t make the timing align. You can’t script someone else’s heart.

All you can do is love.

And that’s where the powerlessness creeps in.
It’s not the kind that makes you weak — it’s the kind that strips you of pride. You don’t get to be the hero of the story. You’re just someone quietly carrying a sacred feeling, asking God if it's still worth holding on to.

Sometimes I distract myself. I try to pull away emotionally, pretend I don’t feel it anymore. But it’s always there.  The soft pull toward a person who, for one reason or another, doesn’t feel the same way— or doesn’t know how to say it if they do.

And in that space of not knowing, I still choose love. Quietly. Powerlessly.

And then I thought of Jesus.

As I wrestled with this ache, I began to wonder: Is this how Christ feels about us?

Is this what it’s like to love someone with your whole heart, knowing they may never love you back? To long for their presence, to reach for them, and be ignored, or rejected, or met with silence? 

 The Bible says,

“He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him.”
John 1:11 (NIV)

He loved — fully, fiercely, eternally — and yet, we turned away.

But He kept loving.

It also reminds us,

“But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”
Romans 5:8 (NIV)

Not when we were ready. Not when we said yes. Not when we had it all together. While we were still far away, He loved.

And maybe that’s the invitation in this season — not to compare my love to Christ’s, but to recognize the echo of His heart in mine. If I can love someone without knowing if they’ll love me back... how much more does Jesus love me, even in my wandering? Even in my silence?

This powerlessness — it’s not defeat. It’s not weakness.
It’s the kind of surrender that purifies your love. Because when you can’t gain anything from it... and you love anyway, When there’s no certainty... and you stay kind anyway, When your feelings aren’t reciprocated... and you remain sincere anyway — That’s the kind of love that looks a little like grace. And maybe, in the end, this is the kind of love that heals us. The kind that lets go of control and simply chooses presence. The kind that teaches us more about Christ’s heart than any answered prayer ever could. 

So yes, I feel powerless. But maybe that’s okay. Because if love was ever meant to reflect God, then maybe its greatest strength lies in its gentleness — in its refusal to quit — in its quiet, faithful yes.