In relationship therapy, I once took a test that scored me remarkably low on commitment. The results were politely blunt: You do not really see the point, do you?
Rude—but not wrong.
To make sense of it, I wrote it all down. Every love story, every situationship. I charted the timelines like a cartographer of heartbreak:
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How the courting phases began (spoiler: usually less than a week)
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How long we were together (spoiler: often years)
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When discord crept in (hello, months 2 to 6)
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Who ended it
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How soon the next one appeared
Before Will died, I was in a new relationship within four months. Typically? Two months and someone new would come knocking. I did not even have time to clear the emotional dishes before someone was ringing the bell.
Make no mistake—after Will, the suitors showed up again. Too soon. One was too stable (creepy how clean his kitchen was). One was too unstable (he thought eating fruit counted as emotional regulation). Another was a friend, and that felt…off.
My heart did not just say no—it closed the door, drew the curtains, and put up a do not disturb until further notice sign.
So I vanished.
I went on a voyage with no destination. I kissed a few frogs—some even turned into princes. But mostly, I met extraordinary people with short-term visas into my orbit.
Except one.
One person felt like a bolt of lightning wrapped in velvet. A once-in-a-lifetime this magic moment kind of love. The kind that makes your stomach lurch and your palms damp even in the snow. That person? Oh, I fell. And I fell hard. And often.
I fell in and out of love with them like it was a revolving door made of frustration. How can you not see how amazing you are? Why do you keep making the same mistakes? You deserve everything good and holy, and yet here we are again?
The depth of my love returned like tidewater. Constant. Familiar. Like a warm, steady hum beneath the chaos.
I realised: that stability was not about them. It was me. Learning to be gentle with myself.
I was walking around my neighbourhood one day, listening to Kid Koala’s cover of “Crazy in Love” on repeat (do not judge—it slaps). I caught my reflection in a window and thought, Damn girl, you look GOOD today! People smiled at me. I smiled back. My phone blew up with invites. I felt high on life and untouchable. And I was… in love.
It took me days to realise who it was.
It was me.
And I did not care how bonkers it sounded. I leaned in. I gave myself the full rom-com montage treatment. Long walks. Books in bed. X-Files marathons. I bought myself a gorgeous dress. Got a new tattoo. Took a long train ride with my eyes closed, just breathing. Just being.
And everything started going right. Like, suspiciously right. Like the universe finally whispered, You got it now.
Then, naturally, I panicked. I am not used to things going well. So I crawled under the bed with my emotional torch and my dust bunny army. And somewhere in the quiet, a voice—my voice—gently slapped me:
“Girl, no. We deserve this joy. Now get out from under there. And sweep while you are at it.”
(I still have not swept. Sorry, dust bunny king.)
But I listened. And I began to understand: I have always been my own fiercest opponent and my best friend. My own cheerleader. My own knight in shining armour.
And yes, under that armour? There is a fire gown ready to slay—not just dragons, but every room I enter. I may not be fast to let someone else in again. But if I do?
They better come with a full love affair for themselves first.
Because I am already taken.
“My heart is not a rescue mission. It is a rave. Show up whole—or do not show up at all.”
