Love is a journey—sometimes a labyrinth, sometimes a pilgrimage, but never a straight path. It is not given freely; it must be discovered, tested, lost, and found again. The ancient myth of Cupid and Psyche, first recorded in Apuleius’ The Golden Ass, tells this truth with haunting beauty. Their love is neither easy nor immediate; it is a story of longing, separation, and the arduous work of reclaiming what has been lost.
Today, on St. Valentine’s Day, I find myself returning to this myth and to Benjamin West’s evocative painting, which captures the moment when Cupid revives Psyche. The embrace between them is tender, but it is not without sorrow. It is a reunion that carries the weight of all that has been endured.
I see myself in Psyche—not in her beauty, but in her trials. In her longing. In her perseverance. And in the part of her that refuses to give up on love, even when it seems impossibly out of reach.
Venus was merciless. She did not simply keep Cupid from Psyche—she forced Psyche into an ordeal of suffering, one trial after another. Sorting seeds, collecting golden fleece, fetching water from the Styx, descending into the underworld—each task was a test not just of her devotion, but of her endurance.
Psyche, overwhelmed by the weight of these impossible labors, laments:
"Why, why do you torment me so, relentless Fortune? Set no term, no end to my labors! Take no thought for me; pile task on task, and let not even despair itself bring me surcease!" (The Golden Ass, Book 6)
I cannot help but wonder: How often does love demand the same of us? How often does it test our patience, our vulnerability, our willingness to try again despite failure?
I have felt this in my own life. I have known what it is to want love but to feel as though I am standing at the edge of something vast and unreachable. I have felt the quiet ache of longing—a whisper at first, then a constant hum, and, in my loneliest moments, a roar that will not be silenced.
Love is not a thing that simply arrives, gift-wrapped and easy. It is something we struggle toward, something we sometimes lose before we even have the chance to hold it. And yet, like Psyche, I keep walking forward, believing that love—true love—is worth the trials.
The most painful moment in Psyche’s tale is not her suffering at the hands of Venus. It is the moment she loses Cupid by her own hand.
She is given one rule—she must never look at her husband. And yet, she cannot resist. In a single act of curiosity and doubt, she breaks the fragile bond between them. The moment her lamp’s light touches Cupid’s face, she sees the truth—he is not a monster, but a god. And in that moment, she also loses him.
When Cupid wakes and realizes her betrayal, he speaks not in anger, but in sorrow:
"Foolish girl! Was this the love I waited for? Was this your promise? But take your farewell; I depart. My love was enough to guard you from fate, but you were not enough to trust in it." (The Golden Ass, Book 5)
West’s painting captures what happens after this—the moment when Cupid returns to her, when love finds its way back. But before that, there was only darkness. There was only silence.
I know what it is to lose love, to stand alone in that silence. I know the feeling of reaching for something only to watch it slip through my fingers, leaving behind only the echo of what might have been. Love has never come easily to me. It has always felt like something just beyond my grasp, something others seem to find effortlessly while I am left wondering if I will ever know its warmth.
But Psyche’s story is not a tragedy. Her loss is not the end of her story. She does not collapse under the weight of it—she fights for love. And perhaps that is what matters most.
Cupid does not abandon Psyche forever. Love, in its truest form, is not so easily extinguished.
When Cupid finally finds her again, he pleads with the gods to allow them to be together:
"O great Jupiter, grant that she, whom I love beyond all else, may be made immortal, that we may be bound forever, that not even fate may part us." (The Golden Ass, Book 6)
And so, Psyche is made divine, lifted from mortality into eternity.
In West’s painting, Cupid’s touch is tender yet urgent. He lifts Psyche, pulling her back from the edge of oblivion. His wings frame them both, as if shielding her from all the pain she has endured. The jar at her feet lies open—its contents spilled, its secret lost. But in the end, it does not matter. She has survived.
Love, when it is real, does not demand perfection. It does not hold our mistakes against us. It does not vanish the moment we falter. It is not easy—but it endures.
This is the part of the myth that I hold onto the most. The part that tells me that love, no matter how lost it may seem, has a way of returning.
I do not know what my own story will be. I do not know if love will come for me the way Cupid came for Psyche. But I know this: I remain open to it. I refuse to let past disappointments make me bitter, to let loneliness turn into resignation.
Because love, when it finds me, will be worth everything. Worth the trials, the waiting, the uncertainty. Worth the years of hoping. Worth every moment of doubt.