Over a year ago, when I still used Twitter, I saw a tweet that said, “lover girls love liberation,” which naturally altered my brain chemistry, because how could lovers not desire freedom?

Isn’t love the most freeing act?

But then, I return to the first time I ever read All About Love by bell hooks, and the sour taste that it left in my mouth – not because it was anything short of brilliant but rather it made me question if I ever really knew the true definition of love.

I don’t think I did. And if I’m honest, I still wonder if I do.

If I based it off my listening sessions, which often features Joey Bada$$ and his lovely voice, then love is only a feeling. There’s an indescribable desire to be around a person, to immerse yourself in their presence, because their vibe ignites a spark that rivals that of Cupid’s arrow and the rest is history. But knowing what I know about love, I don’t believe that’s true or even remotely sustainable.

When I think about love, romantic love in particular, I imagine a deliberate choice, one that’s enduring and transformative, where all participants feel fulfilled and happy and seen.

I used to think that most romantic couplings fit into that box, but social media and my personal experiences suggest otherwise. As a result, I find myself betraying my own desires, forcing myself to care less and less about meeting a compatible partner, because I don’t think most people know what love is nor how to sustain it. Surely that’s a recipe for disaster, right? Two or more people fighting for their lives, trying to make a connection work, because delusion and desperation – neither of which are love – further blinds them to the words written in between the lines: It was never going to be us.

We were never going to be a couple with a love that transcends space, time, and reasoning. The truth hurts, but it’s imperative that we reckon with our reality or else face the alternative option of a fate where we’re destined to always feel incomplete. Isn’t that the opposite of being free? And if so, isn’t that the opposite of being a lover girl?

Is the lover in me still alive? My friends say she can never die, but lately I beg to differ.

Lately, I’ve been questioning every relationship I’ve ever had – be it romantic, platonic, or familial – because depression, anxiety, FOMO, and occasional bouts of imposter syndrome co-conspire to convince me the love that I have to give will never be returned in the way that I deserve. It’s a shitty feeling to navigate, but I’ve found that ignoring and suppressing it no longer helps.

I keep ruminating on my pain. I know that won’t make it go away, but it’s hard to engage with some people from my past without remembering how they’ve treated me. Although people are apologetic – myself included since we’re all human and all hurt each other – I can’t wrap my mind around what led me here or how to heal myself completely.

It’s so contradicting, because I hate the victim mentality. Questionable terminology aside, it really is self-limiting to see the entire world as against you.

I don’t want to move in fear when it comes to expressing my feelings. I’m not afraid of vulnerability.

I want to be truly free. And yet, I’m confined by the need to proceed with caution, because I am an adult, and my whimsicality is deemed as childlike in its nature.

I feel trapped by my own wanting and desires, as I’m still figuring out how to differentiate between those who are emotionally safe and those who aren’t.

This dilemma can’t be love. It must be something more sinister, but then I think of the saying “there’s a thin line between love and hate,” so maybe this confusion is one and the same.

How will I return to that version of myself? The girl, turned woman, who felt less confused, who melted in the presence of others, who met them with doe-eyed looks of hope and happiness and intrigue, who didn’t view most people under the lens of suspicion.

My brain tells me to flee, as if running away and isolating myself from everyone I once knew will result in a love that stays, but I know that it’s just trying to avoid pain.

So, I don’t think it’s fair to call myself a lover girl, at least not in this season of life.

Happy Valentine’s Day. Here are five songs and five movies I’ll be thinking of today, in no particular order:

Songs.

1. Cupid by 112

2. Love Me Not by Ravyn Lenae

3. Slim Pickins by Sabrina Carpenter

4. Don’t Wanna Fall In Love by KYLE

5. Oscar Winning Tears by RAYE

Movies.

1. Love Jones (1997)

2. Moonstruck (1987)

3. The Broken Hearts Gallery (2020)

4. Poetic Justice (1993)

5. Whisper of the Heart (1995)

Forgive me reader, for I have sinned. I lied.

Here you’ll find my confession.

I’d actually like to get rid of my desire for romance.

Truthfully, I question whether or not I’m capable of defining the term. Nothing I’ve ever experienced amounts to what I’d consider as true romance, but I’ll do my best to describe it.

My favorite, fictional reference replays in my head often.

Season two of Bridgerton breathes life into me, because I’m forever moved by how Anthony professed his love for Kathani Sharma: “I know I am imperfect, but I will humble myself before you because I cannot imagine my life without you, and that is why I wish to marry you.”

Love requires humility, softness, and vulnerability. It requires opening up delicately, revealing the layers and embracing the outcome. Sometimes who you love will never choose you. That’s part of the process.

I’ll never be jaded about the risk itself but rather the growing disdain for taking the risk.

We’re living in a timeline where manipulative tactics – playing with people’s feelings, stringing them along, mistreating them – is viewed as sport. I refuse to partake in that. My heart, morals, and convictions are nonnegotiable to me, regardless of the dating gurus and avoidant acquaintances who try to convince me otherwise.

I’ve felt the same way since I was thirteen years old.

But I am so far removed from thirteen.

I am so far removed from innocent confessions of pure-hearted wanting.

Instead, I am met with disrespect, lust, or malicious intent. I’m expected to be grateful, because ill-intentioned people recognize my bleak reality. We’re surrounded by messaging that suggests that, for Black women, scraps should suffice, even though they won’t.

Those of us who complain, mainly about desiring more while not receiving it, are told that the solution apparently lies with dating outside of our race, but once we do so, we’re villainized or reduced to our “betrayal” (Weeks after Nikki Giovanni’s passing, I had the displeasure of seeing some internet users bemoan Giovanni’s choice to partner with a white woman.)

Why do we live this way?

Love shouldn’t be so complicated. It shouldn’t need a bunch of morphed statistics, think pieces, and essays that center desirability in a way that ultimately caters to the resurgence of race science.

All of this toxic messaging conflicts with my high self-esteem, because I genuinely know that I deserve better but I also deserve exactly what I want, which is why I shared the importance of being earnest in the first place.

I wanted to write an unadulterated ode to my desire for love, and it felt comforting in the moment. I chose honesty. I chose to accept the fact that I desire a significant other, but it doesn’t change the part that frightens me, the part that is born partially out of patriarchal conditioning but mainly out of being a human.

Romantic love is NOT guaranteed.

So I’ve removed it from the altar. It’s no longer pedestalized, as I’ve said before, but I’m ready to drive that point home with a requiem for a dream.

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What if it doesn’t exist (for me)?

What if I never experience healthy romantic love?

I once asked this question aloud, and a friend told me that we’re too young to throw in the towel this early, to which I should’ve said no we’re not.

It is never a crime to desire a thing, but it certainly feels sinful when it overtakes my spirit, when I’m essentially possessed by a wanting, to a point where red flags mesh with green until every encounter meets the same tragic ending.

Because no matter how much my discernment expands, it’s swiftly shrunken by the ease of which I surrender to the dreams and lies that someone decides to sell me, just because they’re lonely and it makes them feel better to use me as their human yoyo.

I do not want that anymore.

I do not want to feel bad about who I am, after conquering demons in order to genuinely love and cherish myself.

I do not want to hurt myself by allowing you to hurt me.

And I no longer desire this relationship to yearning and longing; it has transformed into something sinister, a dynamic that mirrors previously unbalanced situations where it felt as if I was chasing someone to be with me.

I’ve decided that life — the one and only life that we’re granted— is so much more than that.

The more intelligent I become, the more empathetic and compassionate, the less I tolerate people who try to destroy the essence of my soul.

I aim to nurture myself. I want to keep blooming, even if there will never be a partner.

My lovely, former roommate once complimented how I often buy myself flowers. After thanking her, I mentioned how doing so makes me feel better. But the truth is I can’t envision someone doing that for me regularly or ever, so if I don’t do it for myself then what? I’ll just not live to see and experience nice things?

You can do everything right and not attract the experience that you deserve. I know I said maybe it’ll find me, but maybe it won’t and perhaps I start contending with that, too.

Some may say I’m speaking negativity into existence, but those who relate to my experiences understand me deeply. I want to be free, not used. I am so much more than a stepping stone or punching bag for someone’s character development. I don’t want to spend my life pining after something that may never come.

I’d like to protect my inner child, so I’d like to believe that I’ll be more than okay if I live without something I once desperately desired.

A beautiful life must be possible.

—

I don’t see the point in shooting my shot anymore. 

That’s not to say that I no longer enjoy the act of putting myself out there, but my pain permeates through every conversation, clouding my judgment, clouding theirs, destroying any chance of a thriving connection. And how could it not?

Flowers don’t bloom from root rot. 

So, I’ve been focusing on healing the foundation – throwing myself into self-care, working out, researching how to pivot careers, nurturing my friendships, pouring into my hobbies, dedicating more time towards self-discovery and my inner child. 

I’m doing everything that I did before I met him. I’m not sure why I ever stopped. 

Well, actually that’s wrong. 

The truth, which I’m somewhat ashamed to admit, is that I’m not the exception to the rule. I did not pass Feminism 101. I, like everyone else, am just as much a victim to our society’s white cisheteronormative expectations. Even though my existence directly conflicts with their pedestalization of the perfect nuclear family, I still find that there are parts of me that crave a specific kind of companionship. 

I feel betrayed by this longing, because it’s antithetical to my new belief system: outside of God, everything begins and ends with the self and community. 

We don’t need romance. It’s an added luxury if you’re fortunate enough to experience it. Plus, there are other things to focus on – friendship, climate change, the perils of capitalism. 

Romance reminds me of a stubborn itch that I’m unable to scratch, the one where I put so much effort into deliberately ignoring it only to tragically result in a growing hyperfixation. There’s no room to move authentically when you’re stuck in an obsessive loop. That’s why, prior to this year, every first and second date felt like a bigger deal than it actually needed to be. I was attached to the potential outcome, not the person, so I wasn’t prepared for things to naturally end. 

Thankfully I’m self-aware enough to observe my own unhealthy patterns and promptly break them. 

I’ve intellectualized my feelings about romance to the core, dissecting my childhood wounds, my friendships, familial relationships, my behavior patterns, my dreams, and anything else that influences the kind of partnership that I aspired to have. 

But sometimes we focus so much on intellectualizing moments as a way to inadvertently avoid sitting with our feelings. 

Which is why, after all of that work, I still ended up experiencing the same reality in a different font, completely devastated over someone who I was only dating for a few months. 

Unlike my earlier trial and errors, this one was worse since I’m smarter than the previous versions of myself. My therapist kindly and continually reminds me that I’m not at fault for seeing the best in people and how they present themselves in the beginning, but none of that means much to my heart which only feels hurt. 

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I’m mostly convinced that I’m too far gone now, that the idea of romantic love is out of reach, that I’ve given up. 

When I used to express these sentiments to my happily-coupled friends, they’d assure me that we’re young, there’s someone out there for everyone, and they never imagined that they’d meet their person but look at them now! They were well-intentioned but the sweetness of their words could never mask the underlying tone of invalidation – just don’t think about it! It will come! 

I don’t think about it. It does come.

But it leaves as quickly as it arrives, which makes me question the point. 

I recognize the importance of honoring my desires, but it’s hard to take them seriously when they sometimes feel so juvenile. Why am I, as a 26-year-old woman, grieving the aftermath of what could only be described as a ridiculous, one-sided situationship? These types of experiences were meant to be left in highschool or college, at most. My nonblack female friends in committed, long term partnerships are practically headed towards the aisle. 

Even though I’m the first person to yell to the rooftops “comparison is the thief of joy,” it’s hard not to acknowledge the growing differences in our life paths. I am happy for them, but I am sad for myself and for the low vibrational encounters that sum up my dating journey.  

Don’t I deserve more than this? 

There’s another heartbreaking essay inside of me, one that interrogates why beautiful dark-skinned Black women experience the trenches on steroids while navigating the dating scene in 2024. I’m not sure if I’ll ever bring myself to actually write it. I’m not sure if I’ll recover from how enraged it’ll make me feel. 

I’m tired of lessons, and I’m tired of being jaded. 

I need an emotional intervention stronger than therapy. I need Nara Smith to come over and help me rebuild my emotional resilience from scratch. 

Perhaps then I’ll be ready to put myself out there again (Not through dating apps, of course. I’d rather drink a cocktail of Dettol rimmed with Epsom Salt than rejoin Hinge.) 

But I know the longing won’t go away, so I hope I’m ready for whoever comes, if they come. 

I’ll be in good hands if the romantic love embraces me as warmly as my most loving friendships and my softest interactions. 

My best relationships were born out of slow burns, built up interactions over time, just as - if not more – valid as what our culture deifies – instant connection, magnetic attraction, a rushed pursuit. 

Maybe if I take it slow, then I’ll return to myself. Maybe then, it’ll find me. 

At this moment, we’re a few days shy of August, which is not only significant for my birthday but also romance month. Even though I haven’t been able to bring myself to read or watch a story from my favorite genre in awhile, I’m comforted by the fact that I’ll return to it. Romances, comedies or otherwise, aren’t just about the love between a person and their partner; these tales often remind women that they can have it all. Love is everywhere. It’s in our relationships but also in the moments that plant seeds of joy that blossom into true happiness. If you like Charli XCX’s recent song, Everything is romantic, then perhaps you resonate with this idea. She sings “winding roads, doing manual drive / early nights in white sheets with lace curtains / Capri in the distance / in a place that can make you change / Fall in love again and again.” There’s love everywhere, even in the places and experiences that we’ve gone through before. Predictability doesn’t negate love. Romances might be formulaic, but they heighten the mundane and validate the desire to view life in technicolor. 

I see the beauty in breathing, in meeting new people, in expired and blossoming relationships, in reruns of my favorite shows, in my plants surviving and thriving (just like me!), in nature outliving us, in my hopelessness and hopefulness, in dates that lead nowhere, in hugs that never feel long enough, in all-consuming laughter that makes your stomach hurt, in you, in me. 

I owe it all to romance. They’ve taught me so much about living and keeping my heart open. 

My willingness to both pursue and hold onto specific moments, where it’s all uncertain and the only things I can carry are vulnerability and risk, is inherently romantic. “I wouldn’t say we’re being sold a fantasy. Instead, we’re being shown what’s possible,” I say, adding to my rebuttal.

I pivot back to the movies. 

Weeks before my date with this guy, a little girl ran from across the street to hug me, birds chirped outside of my window to wake me up, a Trader Joe’s grocer and I spoke about the realities of chasing your dreams when the outcome for people who look like us is often slim to none. I can easily tie these snapshots of my life to movies. Who is to say I wasn’t living in Enchanted or a Nora Ephron film? Suddenly, small talk wasn’t so small. Everything mattered. I felt seen by the signs of life reflecting back at me. 

How are romantic comedies any different? They showcase the power of seemingly minuscule things that are, in actuality, huge. When I watch Andie Anderson (Kate Hudson) in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, I’m in awe about how she strongly holds her own against playboy Benjamin Barry (Matthew McConaughey), as they both run a game to try and see if they can get the other to fall first. People play games while dating in real life, perhaps not on such a large scale, but the beauty of this rom-com lies in the fact that Andie doesn’t lose herself. She’s independent and fierce and capable of prioritizing her career goals above all else, including a man. 

Maybe it’s escapism. Maybe in real life someone is more likely to be heartbroken and stagnant due to the emotional turmoil brought about by the deceit of someone they’re interested in (I know I’ve been). But, as cliche as it sounds, I watch a movie like this, and I know it doesn’t have to be this way. My life doesn’t begin and end with a love interest; I’ll move forward regardless. 

The fullness of my life is hope; the fullness of my life is love. We are all our own soulmates.  

Contrary to what people believe, romantic comedies often defy heteropatriarchal expectations. They remind women that life will bless them with a soft landing regardless of who they may or may not end up with. Two of my favorite Julia Roberts’ movies are emblematic of that. In My Best Friend’s Wedding, her character Julianne doesn’t end up with Michael, the guy of her affection. Instead, he ends up with Kimberly, the woman who he loves. Julianne dances with George, her other best friend, and he delivers an iconic feminist-coded speech at the end: “Life goes on. Maybe there won’t be marriage…maybe there won’t be sex…but by God, there will be dancing.”

And of course there’s the iconic Pretty Woman where Roberts’ character, Vivian, displays the strongest love of all – self-love. The most romantic moment is not the ending where Edward (Richard Gere) conquers his fear of heights, climbs up her fire escape with a bouquet of flowers, and professes his love for her. Rather, it’s scenes prior when Vivian refuses to settle, rejecting his offer to essentially be his full-time mistress. She wants all of him or nothing. Ultimately, she gets to be with Edward, but the true romance lies in her inner strength. She’s willing to walk away, even though her heart was in the connection for the long haul, which is a testament to the highest form of love that we can have with another human – our self. 

My spiel is not nearly as long as this essay; and yet, The Guy Who I Won’t Be Seeing Again™ concedes to my point, and we switch the subject. But knowing myself, the conversation will remain in my head for way longer. So here we are. 

I keep writing and talking about love, friendship, and romance in hopes that my love of love revives itself fully. Part of my most recent heartache lies in the fact that, when you’re in pain, it’s so easy to forget. It’s so easy to let cynicism consume you, to revert to a stance where the movies and the songs and the poetry are all lies (as if they weren’t made by real people with real emotions and experiences as source material). Still, I’ve seen the beauty before, so I’ll see the beauty again. I’ll engage with the most jaded but I won’t let their words sour me, because hope is not only a revolution but also a form of love. There is more to come everywhere, as the simple truth remains. Everything is romantic.