Valentine’s week has a particular rhythm. Restaurants fill up, florists do brisk business, and social media leans hard into the language of romance. It is the one week of the year where love is expected to look visible, generous, and celebratory. But for many people living with chronic health conditions, love does not only show up at candlelit tables. It shows up in waiting rooms, pharmacy queues, early mornings, and quiet fatigue. And that is where our usual scripts around care begin to falter.

We often talk about love languages as if they belong only to relationships at their easiest stage. The flowers. The gifts. The quality time. The reassuring words. The physical closeness. Popularised by The 5 Love Languages by Gary Chapman, the idea helped many couples understand that affection lands differently for different people. But when illness enters the picture, love languages do not disappear. They become louder. They become the operating system for care.

This is where many well-meaning gestures begin to feel strangely heavy. Someone might offer money to cover a doctor’s appointment, a taxi, or medication. That is care, expressed through giving and problem solving. Another person might want company instead. To sit in the waiting room. To have someone hear the diagnosis at the same time. To not feel alone in a moment that feels frightening. And then there are those who need the opposite. Privacy. Space. The dignity of going alone because being watched feels overwhelming.

None of these needs are wrong. But when care is assumed rather than translated, even generous gestures can miss their mark.

For the person living with illness, this creates an invisible emotional labour. There is the pressure to say thank you even when the gesture did not help. The guilt of cancelling dinner plans when your body simply cannot cooperate. The silence that follows when it feels easier to accept what is offered than to explain what you actually need. Many people only realise that something does not help after the fact. And many never feel safe enough to say so.

This is especially true in communities where illness still carries stigma. Diabetes, epilepsy, autism, and other non-communicable conditions are often treated as private burdens rather than shared realities. Strength is praised. Endurance is admired. Asking for specific support can feel like weakness, or worse, like inconvenience. So people cope quietly. They manage. They smile through gestures that do not quite land.

This is where curiosity becomes an act of love. Not the grand kind. The quieter, braver kind. But this curiosity does not belong in the middle of a crisis. When someone’s blood sugar is crashing, or they are disoriented, overwhelmed, or afraid, that is not the moment to negotiate care. These conversations need to happen earlier or after said episode, in calm, ordinary moments, when both people are regulated and able to listen without urgency. It is not about interrogating someone in real time. It is about creating space to understand how they want to be supported. Do they want company or space? Practical help or quiet presence? And once that understanding exists, love is shown not through repeated questioning, but through steady follow through.

Sometimes that looks very ordinary. Sitting together on a Sunday morning and sorting medications for the week. Helping pack a hypo bag so it is ready before it is needed. Making sure snacks are in a work bag the night before. Keeping gym clothes by the bed because mornings are hard. Setting your alarm too, because accountability feels more supportive than reminders. These small, practical acts are love languages in motion.

I once heard a friend talk about how, when she was dating the man who is now her husband, she learned to quietly check that his day bag always had sweets for low blood sugars. She did not make a show of it. She did not wait for a crisis. She learned his patterns and adapted around them. That was not romance in the traditional sense, but it was deeply intimate care.

This applies far beyond romantic relationships. Parents, siblings, friends, even colleagues navigate this terrain daily. A mother might show love by hovering, while an adult child needs reassurance without surveillance. A sibling might insist on attending every appointment, while the other needs trust more than presence. Care that lands well begins with permission, not assumption.

Valentine’s Day culture tells us that love should be visible and impressive. But chronic illness teaches a different lesson. Love often works best when it is quiet, negotiated, and responsive. Sometimes flowers are lovely. Sometimes chocolates help. Sometimes a thoughtful gift lifts the spirit. And sometimes the most loving thing you can do is accept that today is not the day for celebration at all.

This is also a shared responsibility. People living with illness deserve the time and space to understand their own needs without shame. Learning to vocalise those needs takes practice, especially in cultures that reward silence. But the burden should not rest there alone. Loving someone well requires curiosity, adaptability, and humility. It requires accepting that care might look different to what we imagined, and being willing to adjust.

As Valentine’s approaches, perhaps the most meaningful gesture is not the one that photographs well, but the one that lands softly. The one that asks first, and prepares in advance. The one that understands that love, especially in illness, is not about doing more. It is about doing what helps.
Sometimes love looks like flowers. And sometimes it looks like preparation, presence, and restraint. That is not lesser love. It is more fluent love. And for many living with chronic conditions, it is the kind that matters most.

Kaajal Vaghela is a sportswear designer and diabetes wellness consultant with over three decades of lived experience managing Type 1 diabetes. Having previously served as Chairperson of the Lusaka branch of the Diabetes Association of Zambia, she remains a passionate advocate for breaking down myths and building awareness about diabetes. For more personalised coaching or corporate wellness workshops, visit: www.kaajalvaghela.com and for any feedback: [email protected])