Today is Valentine’s Day. We don’t celebrate it in my religion, and that’s perfectly fine with me. For as long as I can remember, I have associated this date more with my father’s birthday than with romance.

Still, before my conversion, Valentine’s Day held a special place in my heart. As a teenager, I was a hopeless romantic. The day felt magical–full of promise, excitement, and tender expectations.

I was seventeen and already in college when I had my first Valentine’s celebration. Coincidentally, it was also the first time I had a boyfriend. Instead of a traditional date, I chose to celebrate with friends, so we ended up having a group dinner. It wasn’t the candlelit evening I had imagined—no roses, no grand gestures—but it was joyful. We laughed, shared stories, and simply enjoyed being young.

When I got home that night, I was surprised to receive a bouquet of roses from a board mate who had been romantically linked with me months earlier. He didn’t know yet that I already had a boyfriend; the relationship was barely two weeks old.

In my youthful innocence, I told my boyfriend about the flowers, expecting him to find it amusing. Instead, his reaction was a mix of sadness and regret. He realized that this should have been our first Valentine’s together—and that he should have been the one to give me flowers.

From then on, he gave me flowers even without any occasion.

Today, I no longer remember him as the young man I once fell in love with, but as the boy who shared my first Valentine’s—young, naive, and surrounded by laughter and friends. Looking back, I sometimes think I should have stayed longer in that lighthearted season of life with friends. Entering a serious relationship too early quietly stole from me the chance to fully enjoy my college years.

In my late twenties, I met my future husband. It was an instant attraction followed by a whirlwind courtship. While our faith does not observe Valentine’s Day, he still gives me flowers. We simply renamed the occasion—Heart’s Day.

Last year, I asked him how much he spent on a bouquet of roses. He told me that flowers were expensive where we lived, and when I heard the price, I gently suggested he buy food instead. I wanted him to know that while flowers still made me happy, receiving something that benefited our daily life made even more sense.

And in that moment, I realized how much I had changed.

I had grown from a hopeless romantic into a practical woman—someone who now understands that love is not measured by the number of buds in a bouquet, but by the quiet consistency of effort, sacrifice, and commitment.

Real love, I have learned, lives not in grand gestures, but in the steady choice to stay, to care, and to build a life together.