Mental Health Is My Love Language

(Not gifts. Not flowers. If someone checks in on your burnout or knows your anxiety triggers — that’s hot.)

I’ve always liked the idea of love languages. Words of affirmation, acts of service, quality time — all the classics. But somewhere along the way, I realised that none of them quite captured what makes me feel truly seen.

For me, it’s this:

If you ask how I’m actually doing — and then wait for the real answer.

If you remember that certain things make me anxious, and you don’t brush them off.

If you check in when I’ve gone quiet — not because I owe you something, but because you noticed.

That’s it. That’s my love language — Mental health awareness. Emotional check-ins. 

It’s not about over-therapising everything. I don’t need someone to fix me or solve my moods. I’m usually okay on my own — I journal, I reflect, I talk to my sister when something really lingers. But when someone chooses to show up for my emotional world — that’s when I feel closest to them. Not when they bring gifts, but when they make space for my interior life.

I think our generation is redefining what intimacy looks like. It’s less about the dramatic grand gestures and more about the subtle ones — like when someone remembers you’re overwhelmed by crowded spaces or senses you’re overstimulated and quietly turns the music down.

It’s when a friend doesn’t ask, “What’s wrong?” but instead says, “You don’t seem like yourself. Want to talk about it?”

It’s when a partner doesn’t joke away your spiral but holds it gently, without needing to fix it.

It’s when someone says, “Text me when you get home,” and actually means they want to know you’re safe.

Those things may look small. But they’re everything.

It’s not that I don’t value the traditional love languages — I appreciate kindness in any form. But for me, real connection is rooted in emotional fluency. In caring how someone’s mind feels, not just their schedule or their social life. I want relationships where people feel safe saying, “I’m not okay today.” And know they’ll still be loved.

So if you ask me what makes me feel loved — it’s not roses or elaborate dates. It’s emotional attunement. It’s thoughtful quiet. It’s care that lingers past the surface.

Because truthfully?

Mental health is my love language.

It’s noticing.

It’s holding space.

It’s choosing to care — when no one’s watching, when it’s not easy, when it’s not cute.

That’s the kind of love I give. And the kind I hope to keep choosing — again and again.

And maybe — it should be more people’s love language too.
Because the truth is, we’re all carrying something. Even the ones who seem fine. Especially them.
So much of what hurts stays invisible — and emotional safety shouldn’t be a luxury. It should be the baseline.

Imagine if we all paid a little more attention to the quiet things. If we checked in, even when we weren’t sure how. If we asked better questions. If we listened without rushing to reply.

The world doesn’t need more perfect people. It needs more people who care. Who sits with discomfort. Who shows up, even clumsily, for the people they love.

Mental health might not be listed as an “official” love language — but maybe it should be.

Because when someone really sees you, not just the version you perform — that’s love.
And when we start offering that to each other?
That’s healing.