la présence

There are countless ways to describe love, but one story has always stayed with me: the ancient Greek myth of soulmates. Fair warning — I will probably talk about lightning a lot in this article.

Long ago, humans were said to have two faces, four arms, four legs, and a round body. They were so powerful that the gods saw them as a threat. Zeus struck them with a thunderbolt, splitting them in two and scattering them across the world. Since then, each half has wandered the earth, searching for its other half — the soulmate that makes them feel whole again.

It makes me think about the phrase “love at first sight.” In French, we call it coup de foudre — literally, a lightning strike. Just like Zeus’s thunderbolt that split humans in two, sometimes love hits you suddenly, like a shock that awakens a part of you you didn’t even know was missing.

I first heard this legend at school, and with my imagination, it felt completely real. I hoped, desperately, that it was true.

Years went by, and my search seemed hopeless. I started thinking maybe true love was just a myth. But my mother, always smiling at my complaints about men, would say: “Of course they all seem flawed. But there’s one for you — he’s out there somewhere, and when the time is right, he will find you.”

It turns out that the ancient Greeks and my mother were both right. He was born just a week after me, on the other side of the world.

Meeting him felt statistically close to being struck by lightning. And like lightning, the impact was immediate: a sudden acceleration of the heart, a rush of heat, a brief loss of clarity — as if my nervous system had been overloaded without warning.

Scientists say a lightning strike can disorient you, heighten your senses, and divide your life into a clear before and after.

Seven hundred and eighteen days later, I find myself agreeing with the scientists: falling in love has exactly the same effect.

The world didn’t suddenly become perfect. Thunder still exists. Storms still pass. But for the first time, I wasn’t searching the sky anymore. Like in a Greek myth, I knew the quest was over when I felt the relief of finding what I thought had been forever lost.

I don’t know if the gods planned it this way, but I finally understood what happiness really is the day you took my hand and we went looking for it together.

Thank you, my dear Keita, for being the extraordinary man that you are — the one who taught me how to recognize true light, so I would never again confuse it with anything else.

Thank you for making love feel real — in the way you show up.
Thank you for making it warm — in the way you care.
Thank you for making it evident — in everything you do.

I love you.