When Love Did Not Feel Like Love

Can you share a positive example of where you’ve felt loved?

“My limbs give way, my mouth is parched, my body trembles, and my hair stands on end.”
— Bhagavad Gita 1.29

Arjuna speaks these words not on a battlefield alone, but from the deepest place of inner conflict. He does not say he is unloved. He says he is overwhelmed, confused, unable to steady himself. Krishna does not interrupt him. The Gita begins not with strength, but with struggle being spoken aloud.

This is where my story begins too.
I sing Thevaram as part of my duty—within family, within tradition, within rhythm. Yet when the same tune I sang yesterday returns uninvited into my mind the next morning, I question myself:

“Did I sing without devotion?”

If it truly came from the heart, why does it echo like unfinished work?

My tongue struggles. Though Tamil is my first mother tongue, it no longer flows easily. English dominates my daily life, reshaping my mouth, my breath, my confidence. So when I sing classical Tamil hymns, I do not arrive naturally—I force myself to sound right, to match pitch, to align with others, to not disrupt harmony.

Even prayer becomes effort.

Even devotion becomes discipline.

I do not remember a time when this effort was met with warmth, reassurance, or the feeling of being loved. It felt like duty stacked upon duty—roles performed correctly, emotions left unacknowledged.

Yet the Gita teaches something subtle here.

Arjuna’s worth was not measured by how steady his hands were, but by the fact that he did not walk away from the field. Likewise, devotion is not proven by ease, but by continuing despite resistance.

There is a quiet misunderstanding we live with:
that love must feel soft, affirming, spoken.
But some lives are shaped by a different kind of love—
love that appears as expectation, endurance, and continuity.

I did not feel loved while twisting my tongue to sing correctly.
I did not feel embraced while adjusting my voice to blend with others.
But I stayed. I sang. I cared whether it was sincere.

That itself is a form of love—
not the love that comforts,
but the love that keeps showing up without applause.

Krishna does not say devotion must be fluent.
He says it must be offered.
“Even if one’s speech falters and the tongue struggles,
when effort is offered with sincerity,
that very struggle becomes devotion.”
— Bhagavad Gita, lived meaning

So my tongue twisting to sing was not proof that I was unloved.
It was proof that love existed—
only it lived as perseverance, not tenderness.
And perhaps that is the devotion that was always present,
even when it did not feel like love.