I Thought I Was The Type Of Girl Who Believed In Love
When I was six years old, I would play with my Barbie dolls and the story was always the same. A damsel in distress, a knight in shining armor, and a love story with a happy ending.
When I was 12 years old, I would fill composition notebooks front to back with love poems. I would write “I <3 XXXX” on the back of my hand and then hold my breath when he passed me in the hallway—hoping that XXXX would notice me and save me from the distress that was middle school.
When I was 16 years old, I craved a high school sweetheart—like in all the good movies. At night, I didn’t coax myself to sleep by counting sheep. I imagined hundreds of different scenarios where I was the main character in my own love story. I scribbled quotes on coasters and love poems on the backs of receipts.
When I was 18 years old, I thought I was in love (but really, I was just naive). At 19, I only got more naive—which turned into heartbreak. I wanted love so badly that I stopped seeing love stories and just accepted anyone that would see me. Ironically, I stopped writing then. Maybe it was because I felt ashamed or because poetry wasn’t cool back then.
When I was 21, I finally fell in love. I was so in love with the idea of being in love that I lost myself and didn’t even notice when he stopped loving me until it was too late. That’s when the words came again. They fell out of me like a summer storm after weeks of dry heat. This was also when I claimed it: I was a girl that believed in love.
I was the girl who believed in romance and bedtime stories and falling head over heels. I was the girl who believed in love so much that nearly every single decision was based on the answer to one simple question: “Could I fall in love here?” Which city I lived in. Which coffee shops I went to. Whether I would go out to the bar that night.
Throughout my twenties, I searched for love in sunlit patios in Miami and speakeasies in New York City. I swiped and I swiped and I smiled at men without a wedding ring on subways. I went on good dates and terrible dates and oh my god, there were so many dates. But time and time again, none of them stayed. I wrote about my dating escapades and made a sort of name for myself, like another version of Carrie Bradshaw—but without the designer clothes or one-bedroom apartment.
I was the girl who believed in love, and everyone knew it.
“You’ll find someone, I know it.”
“You’re such a catch, you’ll meet a great guy soon.”
“I can’t wait to meet the guy you wind up with.”
When I hit 30, things started to change. Since I apparently couldn’t find love on the east coast, I flew across the Atlantic Ocean. I moved to Europe and imagined falling in love at first sight with some tall, dark, handsome stranger who saw me sipping on a cappuccino on some cobblestone street and then never looked away.
But, you see, this is when things started to get interesting. By this time, I was a girl who thought she believed in love, but I was also the girl who had gotten really good at being alone. I took myself on dates. I took myself on vacation to Nice, for goodness sake. Still, I was searching for meaning in the eyes of every stranger and all of the profiles on Bumble.
And I met a few really great men, honestly. But there was always something missing. Always something that didn’t quite fit the story I wanted to be telling. My friends would say I’m too picky and I always got defensive about this notion. I knew what I wanted, I said. I waited this long; I’m not about to settle; I’d stomp my foot. I always wanted more.
It was a Tuesday morning in Vienna when the sun woke me up before my alarm clock that it hit me. I stretched my arms out on the king bed and sighed out the dreams from the night. I looked up towards the ceiling where my windows gave me a sneak peek at the clouded sky, and I smiled softly to myself.
It felt good to take up this space. It felt good to be alone. And that’s when a little whisper started to climb up from the depths of my too-big heart: What if this is what I’ve been searching for?
Ever since I was little, I have wanted a love story. I wanted a grand wedding and babies and a house with a yard. I wanted butterflies that never stopped flying, and I wanted to be that old couple that still held hands when walking in the park. I wanted it all.
I let this untold love story rule me, define me. It made me think that my story would always be unfinished, would always be missing a happy ending unless I found the other party to complete it. I would always be a prequel. A half. A heart without a home.
But what if I didn’t believe in that anymore? What if love in someone else isn’t really what I’m looking for or meant for? What if I was okay being simply alone? What if my love story is untraditional? And what if it’s okay to be whole without a second half?
Suddenly, my entire foundation unraveled in front of me. The stories I’ve been building up since I was six years old lay like crumpled-up composition book papers at my feet. But you know what? I have to be honest with you… the realization that I could do this life on my own didn’t come with heartbreak. It came with relief.
The other night, I took myself to dinner, and I asked for the window seat. The waiter looked at me with sad eyes and said, “but you’re alone.” I smiled at him sweetly, and light filled my eyes, “Yes, yes I am.”
So I sipped my Sauvignon Blanc as I listened to the piano’s keys fill the air and the people walk by on the other side of the cool glass, and that’s when I decided: I was ready to let go of who I thought I was and let myself be who I’ve become. I was really to let go of the expectation that I needed a happy ending to be happy.