The Art of Finding Love

In Unexpected Places

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I recently read about kintsugi—the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with powdered gold. The object isn’t discarded or hidden away in shame. Instead, its damage is highlighted and transformed into something beautiful. The cracks aren’t concealed; they’re made into art. The piece isn’t just repaired—it’s reimagined. I keep coming back to that idea: maybe what makes us captivating isn’t how untouched we are, but how truthfully we’ve been put back together. Maybe the places where we’ve been hurt are the very ones most capable of holding meaning.

I’ll admit—I used to think healing meant returning to who I was before. Now I’m beginning to believe it’s about becoming someone new, someone shaped by the fracture but not defined by it. There’s no clean before-and-after—just the slow weaving of everything I’ve carried into the person I’m blossoming into. And maybe I don’t even notice it happening. Maybe gold flickers in the trust I start to rebuild with myself, or in the space I give others to be flawed and human. Maybe it glows in the warmth I offer to someone else, when once I couldn’t offer it to myself.

It makes me wonder how many people I’ve met who are walking mosaics—stitched together by their own quiet courage. People who don’t shine in obvious ways but glow from the inside out because they’ve made peace with imperfection. And maybe that’s the secret. Maybe it’s not about being whole in the way the world defines it, but about being honest, being soft, being willing to keep trying. Maybe gold looks like persistence. Like hope returning in small doses. Like learning to stay.

I used to believe being broken was something to fix. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe being broken is something to understand. To listen to. To carry with care. We all crack in different places—sometimes more than once—and what a gift it is to still be here. Still choosing. Still learning how to make something beautiful, even if no one else sees it but me.

Lately, I’ve been paying closer attention to the way people hold themselves together—the subtle moments of resilience that often go unnoticed. The gentle nod of discernment when words aren’t enough. The way someone’s eyes soften when they decide to forgive. There’s something golden in that, too. A kind of grace that isn’t loud or demanding but simply exists, shimmering in the quiet spaces where healing takes root.

I think about the conversations that linger long after they’re over—the ones that crack something open, that press gently against the walls I’ve built. Maybe those are moments of kintsugi too—little fractures in my understanding that allow light to seep in, reminding me that I’m capable of shifting, of softening. It’s not always comfortable, but I’m learning that discomfort can be its own version of transformation.

And then there are the places that remain unfinished—the lingering questions, the unresolved goodbyes. It’s tempting to want everything neatly tied up, to believe that healing is a straight path. But maybe the gold is in the wandering, in the not-knowing. Maybe it’s in the patience to sit with ambiguity, to allow things to be imperfect and still meaningful. That, too, feels like its own kind of art.

Sometimes I catch myself searching for those golden seams in others, as if finding them would somehow make sense of my own. I’ve learned, though, that it’s not about understanding every crack. It’s about honoring them—seeing the radiance in someone else’s process, even when it’s messy or incomplete. Perhaps that’s how we love each other best—by recognizing the spark in one another’s imperfections.

And maybe that’s what kintsugi is really about—not just mending what’s been broken, but learning to see the break as part of the story. It’s about allowing ourselves to be seen, fractured lines and all, and trusting that there is beauty in the shaping. That sometimes, the most enlightened parts of us are the ones we never meant to reveal.

There’s a raw honesty that emerges when I stop trying to mask my flaws—when I allow the pieces of who I am to exist without apology. It’s not about glorifying the pain, but about recognizing that survival leaves its own facet of redemption—one that doesn’t beg for regret, only forgiveness. I can trace my fingers over the edges and remember that these lines are proof of persistence, of daring to keep going when everything seemed impossible.

I think of all the times I’ve watched people unravel in quiet corners of their lives—moments of grief that go unseen, triumphs that don’t make it into conversation. We are walking stories, half-told and still being written, and I’m learning that the most compelling chapters are often the ones we hesitate to share. Maybe the cracks are there to remind me that nothing is entirely flawless—not even love, not even light. That everything carries its own narrative of struggle and recovery—a flickering in the dark, only to surge back brighter and bolder.

And perhaps the real art is in the living—in waking up each day and choosing to continue despite the weight I carry. Maybe it’s in the decision to feel deeply, to risk breaking again, to stretch myself open even when I don’t know what’s coming next. Because in that risk, in that willingness to be vulnerable, I think I’ve found a kind of flare that can’t be forged any other way.

I’ve been wondering—in the places where I’ve been mended, what layer of gold I have found shimmering beneath the surface. And I invite you to do the same: to hold your own seams with tenderness, to see the beacon in your own becoming, even if no one else can trace the thread but you.