the importance of being earnest

the one where I finally write my honest thoughts on romantic love (and not expecting it)

The other night, I met an incredible woman who spoke of the stars, our beloved moon, the concept of love, Korean dramas, and the importance of being earnest. I think some people are truly a gift on this Earth, and their words are meant to help many of us survive tumultuous moments. Sometimes they don’t even realize it, but I hope she does.

—

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. 

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.