As a coach—and a Black woman who’s journeyed between continents, cultures, and contradictions—I’ve sat with enough women to notice a painful pattern:

We crave love deeply… but we were never taught how to love ourselves first.

And nowhere is that tension more obvious than in how we talk about love languages.

First, Let’s begin with a truth that might feel uncomfortable:

The idea of “love languages” didn’t come from our mothers. Not from our grandmothers. Not from our culture or our soil.

It was created by Gary Chapman—a white American pastor—to help Christian couples strengthen their marriages. That’s not a bad thing. But it was never designed with the complex, intergenerational stories of Black women in mind—whether you grew up in Nairobi’s estates, Atlanta’s south side, or under the silent weight of a rural, colonial church.

Still, we adopted it: Acts of service. Gifts. Words of affirmation. Quality time. Physical touch.

We squeeze our tender, layered longings into these neat little categories. And rarely do we stop to ask:

If love languages didn’t come from us, how much of how we think about love is even ours?

Because here’s what I’ve seen—again and again—in coaching Black women across borders:

In African homes, love often sounded like, “Have you eaten?”
It looked like school fees paid by a father who barely looked you in the eye.
Or a mother who carried your whole world on her back—but never once told you she was proud.

So it makes sense that we reach adulthood fluent in a love language we were never taught.
It makes sense that we struggle to give it to ourselves.

Most of us were raised to love as a transaction.

Be good. Be helpful. Be needed. And maybe—if you’re lucky—someone will love you back.

In Kenya, I saw women show love through labor. Cooking for entire compounds. Staying silent while men made decisions that shaped their futures. Paying school fees for siblings while wearing bras that barely held together.

In the U.S., I’ve coached women who are so used to surviving, that resting feels wrong. They overfunction. Overextend. Overgive.

We’ve mastered how to love others…
But no one taught us how to love ourselves.

We pray for him.
Fight for them.
Serve the family.

But who taught us how to serve our own souls?

Here’s the hardest truth I’ll say today sis:

Some of us use love languages to justify our own emotional starvation.

You say your love language is “acts of service”—but you’re exhausted, doing everything for everyone, hoping they’ll notice and finally return the favor.
That’s not love. That’s over-functioning.

You say you crave “words of affirmation”—but your own inner voice? Brutal. The moment you fall short, you call yourself stupid, lazy, undisciplined.

You long for “gifts”—but deny yourself small pleasures unless you’ve earned them through struggle and sacrifice.

We become fluent in the language of others—while staying illiterate in our own.

The struggle runs even deeper when you straddle two worlds.

In Africa, women are still praised for how much they can endure in silence.
In America, we inherited another kind of trauma—hyper-independence.

The “strong Black woman” trope? She never asks for help. She never breaks. She carries everything on her back—and ends up building her life brick by brick, exhausted and alone.

So whether we’re dancing to amapiano in Nairobi or sipping mimosas at brunch in Brooklyn, we often carry the same ache:

Who loves me the way I need to be loved?

But before we point the finger outward— We absolutely must turn inward.

Because how many of us are truly clear on how to love ourselves? Not with spa days or vacations (though those are lovely). But with the daily, sacred discipline of tending to our own hearts.

In almost every coaching session, we eventually hit a wall.

Tears come. Not because of what a man did. Or what a job didn’t give.

But because of something deeper.

A grief.

A grief that no one ever prioritized you.
Not your family.
Not your church.
Not your community.
Maybe not even your own mother—because no one prioritized her either.

And underneath that grief?

Rage.

A holy, sacred rage that says:

I deserved better.
I deserve to love myself.
Not someday. Not after I prove myself.
But now. Fully. Freely. Without apology.

So What Now, Sis?

Yes—love languages matter. But only if you know how to speak your own first.

Otherwise, you’ll spend your life hoping someone else will meet needs you’ve never even learned to acknowledge—let alone honor—for yourself.

🪞 It’s time to change that.

That’s why I created the Love Rewired Course.
To help you come back home to yourself.
To stop chasing scraps…
…and start feasting at your own table.

✨ [Sign up here.]

Because your love story has to start with you.
Anything else is just waiting to be rescued.

With deep love,
Lydiah