What I took away from conversations about love

By Vicki Duong

Showing up as the on-site content creator for Soulprint Media’s debut at In Bloom felt a bit like being dropped into the deep end, in the best and most mildly terrifying way possible. You know those moments where you are suddenly hyper-aware that everyone seems to know everyone else, and you’re the unknown variable? That. Multiplied by a room full of people whose words you’ve read, shared, and bookmarked for later.

Obviously, that couldn’t possibly be the case, but In Bloom attendees arrived when their hearts open and on their sleeve from the jump, whereas I needed a bit more time to warm up. There was also the stacked lineup. Glennon Doyle and Abby Wambach were headlining, which already sets a certain tone. Add Robin Ducharme into the mix with the launch of her new book, and suddenly the whole thing feels like less of an event and more of a moment–the kind you don’t want to miss or mess up.

I’ll be honest, there were moments where imposter syndrome tried to sneak in. Like, what am I doing here with my capers roll, my Notes app open full of questions, no published books, while these people are here shaping conversations around identity, purpose, and showing up fully? But then again, I guess that’s kind of the point. Soulprint’s whole ethos leans into capturing those in-between moments, the real ones, and listening to one another rather than forcing something polished for the sake of documentation.

So I did what I’ve always done. Took a breath, hit record, and reminded myself that I’m not looking for soundbites, I’m connecting with real people. 

The activation itself was simple, at least on paper. Write a postcard to someone you love. That was it. Just choosing a person and putting something real down on paper.

I had a set of questions queued up. Simple on the surface, but intentionally open-ended. I asked people to introduce themselves, who they were writing to, then gently guided them through memories, the first time they met, a favourite memory, and why they chose this person now. From there, it opened up into something softer: the words have stayed with them, the words they’ve offered others, the quotes or pieces of writing that shaped how they understand love. And then, of course, the part that mattered most, reading the postcard out loud.

I didn’t know exactly what I would get back. That’s always the gamble with this kind of format. You create a bit of structure, and then you just trust people to fill it in with whatever feels true to them. What struck me almost immediately was how varied everyone’s experiences were, yet how similar they felt.

More than one person brought up road trips with their mum. Singing along to music, windows down, that specific kind of ease that only seems to exist in hindsight. They remembered the details of the music, the genre, the artist, sometimes even the exact song, but not one person could tell me where they were going.

The destination didn’t stick. What stayed was the time spent together. The feeling of it. The soundtrack of it.

It was one of those quietly grounding reminders that the moments we think are small tend to be the ones that last. Not the milestones, not the perfectly planned days, but the in-between.

Another moment that stayed with me happened quietly, near the end of the day. The Soulprint’s trailer had been playing on a loop all day, the kind of thing folks may glance at in passing. But at one point, the timing was serendipitous, as it caught the attention of two attendees who stopped mid-walk and turned towards the screen. There is a moment in the trailer where a photo of Reece flashes up, Robin’s twin brother, whose loss is so deeply woven into her story.

As soon as his image appeared, both of them paused. “Oh, it’s Reece,” one said softly in a way that shifted the energy around them.

We started talking, and they shared that they were there to support their cousin Robin and somehow ended their night with this unexpected moment of recognition and remembrance. They stood there for a beat longer, sharing small memories and talking about how much he meant to their family. It felt like a quiet extension of everything the day was about.

Love shows up in different forms, sometimes planned, sometimes completely unprompted, but always deeply felt.

There was also a layer of the experience that felt personal to me, and, if I’m being honest, a little confronting in a good way. Being in a space filled with people who have clearly done the work when it comes to love, whether that’s self-love, friendships, family, or relationships, has a way of holding up a mirror.

I’ve always known I lean anxious about attachment. It’s something I’m aware of and actively working through, but it’s different seeing the contrast in real time. Watching people move through the space with ease and openness, offering affection freely, holding eye contact a beat longer, speaking to each other with intention. It wasn’t performative. It was just how they are.

And instead of feeling out of place, it made me pause. There was so much to take in from the way people showed up for each other. The softness, the steadiness, the lack of hesitation. It made me realize how much love is practice, and how visible that practice becomes when you’re surrounded by people who have committed to it.

I found myself paying attention not just to the big moments on stage, but to the small ones happening in between. The way someone reached for a hand mid-conversation. The unguarded laughter. It was a different kind of takeaway, one that had less to do with capturing content and more to do with absorbing what it looks like to be open, even when it feels unfamiliar.