These past couple of months, leading up to turning twenty-six, I’ve held on so tightly to the idea that I’m going to fall in love and meet my person. So tightly that almost every person I came across, no matter how small the interaction, my mind couldn’t help but wonder if they were the one—if this interaction was the first moment with the love of my life. And honestly, it was exhausting… and slightly heartbreaking in a strange way, as if my hopes were being crushed every single time. I don’t think getting older is helping much in this case.
At the beginning of this month, I was seeing two people—one for only two dates, and the other over the course of about two months. I broke things off with both of them, and finally, I chose myself. I knew from the beginning that neither of those guys was going to last, but I held on in hopes that maybe they could. And I think I’ve done that with almost every guy I’ve ever spoken to, out of fear that I would end up alone—and maybe because I never thought I was worthy of the love I dreamed of.
It was an odd feeling choosing myself and walking away. I’m so used to the endless cycle of being dragged along for months at a time. I could go into great detail about this, since the last eight years of my life have felt like one long drag with different men, and I have plenty of bruises—but I won’t.
The point of what I’m trying to say is that in choosing myself, I let it go. I let go of the intense grip I had on the idea of needing to meet my person and fall in love. I loosened my grip, and finally, internally, I feel much calmer.
I’m single—fully single. No man on a back burner or “just in case,” no apps with frivolous conversations, and no marriage pact in sight.
I can finally breathe… thank god.