If you ask me what my favorite holiday is, I’ll always say Valentine’s Day.
“Three pounds, thirteen ounces.” “The size of your dad’s hand.” Phrases I often hear particularly on this day.
I was supposed to be born in April, but when my mom’s water broke unexpectedly in early January, she ended up in the hospital, monitored for a whole month — every day, lying there, probably tired and scared for the day I would be born: Feb. 14.
That day — which was teetering on being a nightmare — turned into one of the happiest days of my parents’ lives. They say it was a miracle and that’s how this day always felt to my family going forward. But I often feel like the older I get, the more the world around me approaches Valentine’s Day with a tired and uneasy anticipation.
My earliest memory of feeling like this was Valentine’s Day in fifth grade, my 11th birthday. I handed out giant red iced Costco cupcakes and everyone’s favorite Valentine candy, the red Fun Dip. I had spent the night before prepping, writing personalized notes on each package to every person in my class. I was so excited to see their gleaming reactions to what I wrote. I wanted them to feel special. Just like the day always felt for me.
I made it to my teacher’s desk and said, “Valentine’s Day is the best holiday! Everyone and everything is just so happy!”
She replied, “We shouldn’t even be celebrating this holiday. It shouldn’t even be considered a holiday. It’s not a holiday. It’s propaganda.”
I felt like I had gotten in trouble. Like I had gotten a math question wrong despite trying my best. I felt uncomfortable, as if all this time, my yearly excitement had just been a distraction to others.
As I matured into middle and high school, the thrill of Valentine’s Day faded almost like how Christmas magic dissolves into reality. The day served as more of a reminder of the fact that another year around the sun had passed and I had never been in a relationship. Every Feb. 14, I was losing hope over superficial things like making it to what I considered the A-team: being able to go out to a nice dinner, to post my Valentine on Instagram. I began to associate the “day of love” solely with romantic love, which led me to bow out of the holiday altogether. It felt like I couldn’t participate if I wasn’t in a relationship.
In college, with the stress of relationships and finding “the one” higher than ever, Valentine’s Day has become less and less special. A day I used to think was so full of positivity and miracles is now looked down upon as a joke, a holiday to be disregarded if you aren’t in a relationship.
Trust me, I’ve heard it all: “It’s a commercialized holiday,” according to one article. “It’s capitalism’s grip on the holiday,” a tweet might say. “It’s just an excuse so you can get deals on clothes and businesses can sell you flowers and bears,” one friend said. Over the years, I too have subconsciously embodied these ideas.
We’ve given up so easily on the holiday because society swallows too much realism. It’s like this pre-emptive judgement, pre-distinct eye roll of the holiday. And I hate this attitude. I hate that feeling — it’s the same imposter syndrome I felt that day in fifth grade.
Yet, despite all of these feelings, I have always said to everyone, “Valentine’s Day is my favorite holiday.” It’s my default answer, and I didn’t know why.
I want to go back to the way it was when we were little — when we all used to take the day more seriously. The excitement of wearing pink, red and purple and heart designed clothing to school, spending the Sunday before decorating your Valentine’s box. I miss making sure everyone in your class got one of your Valentine grams and coming home excited about all the sweet treats you collected — all while Nat King Cole’s “L-O-V-E” played from the classroom speaker.
This year, I want to end the long-time debate over the holiday. Valentine’s Day is not cringey, it’s not overrated and, to me, it’s not fake. It’s a reminder of the love we have. The love we’ve always had, that we should never forget.
When I reflect on Valentine’s Day, I think celebration is truly a testament to my parents. It is the only time of year my mom addresses me as Elise Valentina, my first and middle name. Valentina, the word I always thought was interchangeable with the word and meaning of “valentine” when I was a little girl. I felt so lucky that that word got to be a part of me.
My parents never let me lose sight of the holiday. My mom never complained about the day, even if the world did — and every year, when she talks about being in the hospital with me for that long, she never complains. Although terrifying, she talks about how she enjoyed reading books and watching my dad ride around the halls in a wheelchair with my brother William on his lap.
“Three pounds thirteen ounces,” “the size of your dad’s hand,” that same hand that I would squeeze three times, my dad and I’s secret code for the famous three word phrase: “I love you.” This led to years of a hand squeezing war of who could top the other. “I love you more.” Four squeezes. “I love you more than that.” Six squeezes.
My mom and dad have always made me feel the most loved. They have always shown me that the greatest thing out of anything is love. Love yourself, love what you do and love everyone. And this holiday, for me, is a reminder of that.
Elise Peffer is a second year journalism and international affairs major. She is a news staff writer for the Huntington News. Elise can be reached at [email protected].
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