February: A Quiet Kind of Love

February arrives wrapped in the language of love. Hearts in shop windows, roses bundled tight against the cold, reminders everywhere to love loudly and boldly. But for me, February has always felt like a softer month—one that invites a gentler kind of love. The kind rooted in kindness, respect, and the simple act of seeing one another fully.

I often find myself turning to art during this time of year. Love has been painted, sculpted, and captured for centuries in ways words sometimes fail.

Botticelli’s Birth of Venus embodies a quiet reverence—love as beauty, emergence, and grace.

Klimt’s The Kiss glows with intimacy and devotion, a golden moment suspended in time. Together, they remind me that love isn’t only passion; it is tenderness, presence, and care.

As February unfolds, my days are filled with writing—quiet, steady, deeply personal work. I’m putting the finishing touches on my children’s book, a project rooted in wonder and warmth, meant to hold small hands and open curious hearts. At the same time, I’m immersed in my memoirs of living in the Netherlands, where my life became intertwined with history in ways I could never have imagined.

Some of the stories I’m writing now are not easy. They come from the shadows of World War II—stories of fear, courage, loss, and resilience. These are stories entrusted to me by others, offered with vulnerability and hope, and I carry them with great care. Writing them requires patience, humility, and a deep respect for the lives behind the words.

This, too, is love.

Love is listening when stories are difficult.
Love is honoring memories that deserve to be remembered.
Love is kindness in how we speak, write, and treat one another—especially when the world feels heavy.

February reminds me that love does not always arrive loudly. Sometimes it is quiet. Sometimes it is brave. Sometimes it is the simple act of holding space—for beauty, for truth, and for one another.