With the divorce rate sitting north of 50%, it’s obvious a lot of us are getting this wrong. I’ve made plenty of mistakes myself—ignoring red flags, misreading what matters, and confusing chemistry for compatibility. But along the way, I’ve picked up some clarity. These are the ten truths I live by now, hard-won through experience and reflection.
1. I used to think love could fix people. It can’t.
I fell hard for someone who, on paper, seemed like a dream. He was charismatic in a room, laser-focused on his goals, and had that quiet intensity that made you feel like you were the only person in the world when he looked at you. But behind closed doors, he was sharp-edged. He criticized little things—how I laughed too loud, how I phrased my opinions, even how I dressed when we went out. At first, I thought he just had “high standards.” I told myself, Once he feels more secure in the relationship, he’ll relax. Once he knows I’m not going anywhere, he’ll soften.
I wanted to believe love could transform him. That if I just loved him well enough, deeply enough, patiently enough, he’d evolve into the version I saw glimpses of when things were good. But he didn’t evolve. He dug in. The emotional walls stayed up. The criticism didn’t lessen; it got more subtle, more cutting. I started questioning myself constantly. I stopped speaking up. I dimmed myself, bit by bit, thinking that would make him feel safer, and in turn, maybe finally be softer with me.
It didn’t.
Here’s the truth: love doesn’t fix people. Not my love. Not anyone’s. People change when they decide to—when they see the need for change in themselves, not when someone else thinks they should.
What I learned is this: the version of a person I’m dating right now is the only one I can make a decision about. Not the potential version. Not the version they could be “if they just went to therapy” or “once life settles down” or “after we move in together.” Just this one. Because this is the version that will show up when things get hard. This is the version I’ll face when we’re exhausted or grieving or raising kids or navigating life’s curveballs.
Now, when I meet someone, I pay close attention to how they treat people when no one’s watching. How they talk about their ex. How they handle frustration. How they speak to themselves. That’s the real them—not the future fantasy I might be projecting onto them.
Love is not a renovation project. It’s not my job to fix anyone. It’s my job to see clearly, choose wisely, and ask myself one honest question: If nothing ever changed about this person, could I build a life with them? If the answer is no, I move on—because marrying potential is just a slow heartbreak on a long timeline.
2. Chemistry made me ignore character.
There was a time I thought chemistry was everything. If we had that spark—that can’t-keep-your-hands-off-each-other energy, the magnetic eye contact across the room, the conversations that went until 2 a.m.—I thought that meant we had something real.
I met someone who had that effect on me instantly. From the first moment, it felt like something out of a movie. He was witty, intense, physically affectionate. Our connection felt alive in a way I hadn’t experienced before. I remember thinking, This is what it’s supposed to feel like. I wanted to be around him all the time. I couldn’t get enough.
But slowly, I started noticing things.
Like how rude he was to waitstaff—snapping fingers, rolling his eyes when the food took too long. I remember sitting across from him at dinner once while he mocked our server to his face in this sarcastic tone, like it was entertainment. I laughed nervously, but inside, I felt sick.
Or how he talked about his younger brother—always belittling him, always the punchline of a joke. There was a moment on the phone with his mom where he went cold, borderline cruel, then hung up like she was just background noise. He would say things like, “I don’t suffer fools,” and I told myself that was just him being confident.
Even with me, I started noticing this pattern. If I disagreed with him, he’d brush me off. Not argue, not discuss—just dismiss. If I expressed a feeling, he’d change the subject or make a joke. It felt like trying to connect to someone on the other side of a wall.
But I was so pulled in by the chemistry that I kept making excuses. I told myself, He’s just edgy. It’s part of his charm. He’s got a lot on his plate. Maybe he’s had to be tough. I excused behavior I’d never tolerate from a friend, just because the high of our connection felt so intense.
Eventually, the spark fizzled—and all I was left with was someone who didn’t actually know how to care about people. Not consistently. Not deeply. And not when it mattered.
Now, I understand something that used to sound boring but is actually life-saving: Character is the thing that sustains a relationship. Chemistry just gets it started.
So now, I check for completely different things first. I pay attention to how someone talks about people they’re not trying to impress. I watch how they handle frustration, disappointment, even boredom. I ask:
-
Do they show up when it’s inconvenient?
-
Do they take accountability without deflecting or blaming?
-
Do they express kindness without expecting anything in return?
And maybe most important of all, I ask myself: Would I want to become more like this person? Would I trust this person to raise a child with me—not just logistically, but ethically, emotionally, spiritually? If that answer isn’t a strong and immediate yes, I don’t let chemistry talk me into staying.
Because sparks fade. But how someone treats people—that’s what love will look like in year five, year fifteen, when life gets complicated and there’s no spotlight. That’s what matters.
3. I’ve learned love isn’t just about what I feel—it’s about what I give.
For a long time, I thought love was a feeling. That if I felt enough—affection, desire, connection—it meant I was doing my part. I showed up. I was loyal. I cared. And I assumed that was enough.
Then I had a partner who was deeply generous in the ways that he understood love. He brought me small, thoughtful gifts—my favorite snacks, a candle that smelled like the beach I grew up near, a scarf I’d once admired in a shop window. He remembered anniversaries, opened doors, offered to fix things around the house. He tried.
But when I was struggling—when I felt anxious or lost or overwhelmed—he vanished emotionally. He’d get quiet, withdrawn, awkward. If I cried, he’d freeze. If I needed to talk, he’d change the subject or offer a quick fix, then go back to scrolling or working. He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t mean. But he didn’t know how to meet me where I was.
I started to realize: love isn’t just about effort—it’s about emotional attunement. About being present in the way the other person needs, not just how we’re wired to show up.
I remember one specific night: I’d just gotten bad news about a job opportunity I’d really wanted. I came home crushed, holding back tears, and said, “I don’t want advice—I just need you to be with me for a minute.” He sat next to me, patted my leg twice, then stood up and said, “I’ll go heat up dinner.” He thought he was helping. But what I needed was to feel held—not physically, necessarily, but emotionally. I needed someone to stay with me in the sadness for a minute. To say, “That sucks. I’m here.” That’s it.
That moment hit me: love isn’t a checklist. It’s not about gifts or chores or saying the right thing on cue. It’s about making someone feel safe being exactly who they are in front of you—especially when they’re vulnerable.
Now, when I love someone, I ask:
-
Do they feel more regulated, more whole, more steady because I’m in their life?
-
Do I understand what makes them feel seen? What makes them feel safe?
-
Can I be generous in their language, not just my own?
And when I’m being loved, I ask the same: Do they try to understand me in my emotional language—not just when it’s easy, but when I’m messy, scared, or uncertain?
Because love is not just a feeling that comes and goes. It’s an act. A series of small, quiet choices that say, I see you. I want to know you. I’m not going anywhere.
Real love asks more of us. But it also gives more back. When you feel that kind of presence from someone—not just love in their heart, but love in their behavior—it changes you.
4. I’ve outgrown the fantasy of “opposites attract.”
For a long time, I romanticized the idea of being with someone completely different from me. It felt like balance. Like I’d bring the structure, and they’d bring the adventure. I imagined it would make life fuller, more spontaneous, more alive.
And it did—at first.
I dated someone who was everything I wasn’t. He was free-spirited, unpredictable, allergic to schedules. He woke up and followed whatever impulse hit him. Road trip? Sure. Quit his job and try something new without a plan? Why not. He made even grocery shopping feel like a mini adventure. I, on the other hand, love spreadsheets. I thrive on lists, long-term goals, clear direction. He made me laugh. I made sure rent got paid. It felt like a quirky little rom-com.
Until real life kicked in.
When it came to finances, he didn’t budget. When I brought up saving for the future, he said things like, “Why worry about money all the time? It always works out.”
When we talked about kids someday, I mentioned parenting values, education plans, emotional development. He said, “Let’s just see what happens.”
Even weekends became a battleground—he wanted to live moment to moment, and I wanted to slow down and regroup after a draining week.
At first, I tried to make it work by compromising more than I should have. I stopped bringing up long-term plans so I wouldn’t “ruin the mood.” I overfunctioned while he floated. Eventually, I felt like the only adult in the relationship. And let me tell you—being someone’s calendar, emotional anchor, and backup plan isn’t romantic. It’s exhausting.
That’s when it hit me: being different is fine. But being headed in different directions is not.
Now, I don’t get distracted by contrast just because it feels exciting. I look deeper. I ask:
-
What’s driving you?
-
What does stability mean to you?
-
How do you define success?
-
What kind of life are you building—and do I want to live in that world with you?
We don’t have to share every hobby or personality trait. I don’t need a clone. But our values? Our vision for the future? Those have to match. Because love isn’t just about getting along in the good times. It’s about navigating the hard stuff side by side—and that requires alignment.
I’ve learned I’d rather be “boring” with someone who shares my sense of purpose than feel fireworks with someone who’s just passing through life without a map.
No more hoping we’ll “figure it out later.” If we’re not on the same road now, I’m not signing up for the crash ahead.
5. I’ve learned not to let sex lead the relationship.
There’s no denying it—physical chemistry is intoxicating. The spark, the tension, the late-night texts, the way your body responds before your brain even has time to catch up. It’s easy to think that kind of fire means something deep. That the passion must point to real connection.
That’s what I used to believe. And that belief pulled me into relationships where the foundation was smoke, not stone.
I’d meet someone and the pull would be immediate. We’d lock in fast—touch came before trust, closeness before clarity. I’d tell myself it felt “natural,” “effortless,” like we were made for each other. We’d dive into physical intimacy before we’d even asked the hard questions—before I knew how they handled conflict, or if they were emotionally mature, or if they even wanted the same kind of life.
But here’s what always happened: the physical connection would mask the cracks. I’d feel bonded without knowing if we were actually compatible. And by the time the fog of lust started to clear, I was already emotionally tangled up with someone I didn’t fully know.
One relationship in particular made this painfully clear. The sex was incredible—no other word for it. But when I felt anxious or overwhelmed, he didn’t know how to hold space for me. When we disagreed, he shut down or deflected. We never had real conversations. I was vulnerable with my body, but never truly seen in my mind or heart. And deep down, I felt it. The ache of emotional distance that physical closeness couldn’t fix.
Eventually, I realized I didn’t feel respected. I didn’t feel safe. I didn’t feel known.
That was the wake-up call. I had to stop using sex as a shortcut to intimacy.
Now, I wait.
Not because I’m playing games or withholding anything—but because I’ve learned that emotional safety has to come first. I need to know that we can handle uncomfortable truths. That we can disagree without it turning into distance. That we laugh together. That we feel like teammates, not just lovers.
I ask myself:
-
Can I be fully myself around this person—messy, honest, afraid, ambitious?
-
Do I feel emotionally seen, not just physically desired?
-
Do we connect in silence, in tension, in real life—not just in bed?
Because when I do have that foundation—when there’s trust, joy, understanding—then the physical connection becomes something entirely different. Deeper. Safer. More meaningful. It stops being a performance and starts being a reflection of something real.
I used to chase heat. Now I want warmth.
Because heat can burn. Warmth can sustain.
6. Respect matters more than admiration.
I used to get swept up in admiration. The accolades, the charm, the sharp suits and sharper intellect. I dated someone once who had all of it—degrees from the best schools, a career that made people lean in when he spoke, a confidence that filled every room he entered. On paper, he was a star.
And I’ll admit it: I was impressed. So was everyone around me. Friends would say, “You landed a good one.” Strangers at events would light up when they heard his name. He was driven, ambitious, well-connected—the kind of person people label as “high-value.”
But behind closed doors, the cracks didn’t just show—they widened. He canceled on me more times than I can count. He rarely followed through on what he said he’d do. He made decisions without considering me, and when I brought up how that made me feel, he’d say, “I’m doing my best. I have a lot going on.”
And I believed him. For a while.
I kept telling myself, He’s busy. He’s under pressure. He’s building something big.
But deep down, I didn’t feel emotionally safe. I didn’t feel like a priority. And worse—I couldn’t count on him.
That’s when I realized: I respected his resume, not his character.
I admired his achievements. But I didn’t trust his word. I didn’t feel protected by his presence. I didn’t feel seen in the moments that didn’t serve his story.
And the truth is, admiration wears off fast when you’re left alone to carry the emotional weight. It’s easy to fall in love with someone’s potential, someone’s public image. But the real test is how they show up when no one’s clapping. When life gets messy. When it’s time to have the hard conversation or stay up when you need them or admit when they’ve messed up.
Now, I look for something different.
I look for consistency. Integrity. Grit. Not the loud kind—the quiet kind that shows up when things are inconvenient.
I pay attention to how someone handles disappointment, not just success.
To how they talk about people who can’t give them anything.
To whether their actions match their words—not once, but over time.
Because respect isn’t flashy. It’s solid. It’s steady. It’s built in the background, not the spotlight.
And when I think about who I want by my side in real life—not the fantasy—I don’t care if the world admires them. I care if I can trust them.
I’ve learned to choose the person who shows up, not the one who just shows off.
7. Emotional safety isn’t negotiable.
I used to think emotional abuse had to look obvious—yelling, name-calling, throwing things, crossing clear lines. But I’ve learned that sometimes, the most damaging relationships don’t come with raised voices. They come with silence. With disapproval so quiet you start to question your instincts. With a tone that makes you feel like you are the problem, even when you don’t know what you did.
I dated someone once who never raised his voice. He was calm, measured, composed—so much so that everyone around us thought he was the picture of stability. But in private, I started shrinking.
I’d share something I was excited about—a new idea, a strong opinion, a piece of vulnerable truth—and he’d give me a look. Not angry. Just… flat. Disapproving. Like I was being dramatic, or childish, or exhausting. He’d respond with passive-aggressive sarcasm or intellectual superiority.
“You’re really going to make a big deal out of that?”
“You’re so emotional sometimes.”
“That’s not exactly a rational take, but okay.”
It wasn’t violent. But it was eroding. Over time, I became smaller. Quieter. More calculated. I edited myself before I spoke. I tiptoed. I rehearsed sentences in my head to avoid being misunderstood or dismissed. I’d leave conversations feeling confused, like I was slowly going crazy. I started apologizing for my tone more than I spoke my truth.
And I remember thinking, But he’s not mean. He’s not abusive. He just doesn’t like drama.
No. He just didn’t like me being fully human.
That’s when I understood what emotional safety really means.
It means being able to speak without fear of being belittled.
It means crying without being called “too sensitive.”
It means being allowed to exist in your full emotional range—messy, bold, unsure, passionate—and knowing that you’re still loved. Still respected.
Emotional safety isn’t about the absence of conflict. It’s about the presence of respect during conflict.
It’s about knowing you can say the wrong thing and not be punished with silence.
It’s about feeling safe to ask hard questions. To bring your whole self into the room without dressing it up to be more palatable.
Now, I measure relationships by how I feel in my body.
Do I feel calm around them?
Can I breathe easier in their presence?
Do I feel like I can be instead of perform?
Because I’ve lived in relationships where I was always adapting, contorting, managing someone else’s comfort at the expense of my own authenticity—and it felt like emotional starvation.
The person I choose now has to feel like home—not because it’s perfect, but because it’s safe.
And that kind of safety? I won’t compromise on it ever again.
8. I bring up the hard stuff early.
I used to think love meant peace. That if things felt tense, it meant something was wrong. So I kept things light. I avoided conflict. I swallowed my frustration, smoothed things over, pretended certain comments didn’t sting. I told myself I was being “mature.” That I didn’t want to make a big deal out of nothing.
But it wasn’t maturity. It was fear.
Fear of being too much.
Fear of starting a fight.
Fear of hearing something I couldn’t un-hear.
So I stayed quiet. And in doing so, I taught people how to treat me—by not reacting, by not speaking up, I made it easy for things to keep happening.
And the problem is, when you silence yourself long enough, the frustration doesn’t disappear. It just builds. Quietly. Then one day, something small sets it off—a missed text, a thoughtless joke, a dismissive shrug—and suddenly, months of unspoken resentment come flooding out all at once. Not with grace, but with fire. And then I looked like the dramatic one. Because I hadn’t said anything when it first started hurting.
So I stopped doing that.
Now, I bring up the hard stuff early. Not to argue. Not to create drama. But to gather information: Can we handle tension together?
Because love isn’t proven by how good the easy days feel. It’s proven by how we treat each other when things get uncomfortable.
I want to know:
-
Can we sit in discomfort without shutting down?
-
Can we disagree without disrespect?
-
Can we talk without one of us needing to “win”?
I remember a relationship where I finally tried this. Early on, he made a comment that hit a nerve. In the past, I would’ve brushed it off. But this time I said, “Hey, that didn’t sit right with me. Can we talk about it?” And his response wasn’t perfect. But it was honest. He paused. He listened. He didn’t get defensive. And I felt closer to him after—not further away. That’s when I realized: healthy conflict builds intimacy. It deepens trust.
So now I pay close attention not just to what people say, but how they respond when I speak my truth. If someone withdraws every time something gets real, or turns everything into a joke, or flips the blame back onto me—I take that seriously.
Because life will get messy. People get sick. Jobs are lost. Misunderstandings happen. Grief shows up. And I need someone who doesn’t run from the hard parts.
I want a partner who stays. Who leans in. Who says, “Okay, let’s talk about it. Let’s figure this out. Together.”
I don’t fear conflict anymore. I use it as a compass.
Because if I can’t bring my whole self to the table—questions, anger, needs, tears—then I’m not in a relationship. I’m performing in one.
And I’m done with that.
9. I don’t date to fill a void.
There was a time in my life when everything felt uncertain. My career was stuck. My self-worth was shaky. I felt lost—like I was floating without an anchor. And instead of turning inward, I went looking for someone to fix it. I didn’t call it that, of course. I called it “falling in love.” I called it “finally feeling alive again.”
But the truth is, I was trying to be rescued.
I wanted someone to pull me out of the hole I didn’t want to face alone. Someone to make the pain feel smaller, the days feel lighter, the silence feel less loud. I wasn’t looking for a partner—I was looking for relief.
And in that place, I made choices from desperation, not clarity. I clung to people I had no business clinging to. People who weren’t aligned with me at all—who couldn’t hold me, couldn’t hear me, couldn’t walk beside me in a meaningful way. But I held on anyway, because being with someone—even the wrong someone—felt safer than sitting with my own discomfort.
I let chemistry distract me from disconnection. I mistook attention for affection. And when things started to crumble, as they always did, I’d panic—not because I loved them deeply, but because I couldn’t bear the idea of being alone again.
That cycle taught me something I carry with me now:
Loneliness isn’t healed by another person. It’s healed by coming home to yourself.
No one can complete me. No one can fix my life for me. That’s my work.
And when I do that work—when I build a life I love, when I become someone I’m proud of, when I find joy in my own company—I stop reaching for relationships as a rescue.
These days, I don’t date to feel whole. I already am whole.
I date to share what I’ve built. To bring someone into the peace I’ve earned. To grow with someone, not hide inside them. And I ask different questions now:
-
Does this person bring out the best in me—or just distract me from the worst?
-
Can we grow together—or am I shrinking to stay close?
-
Do I feel seen—or just needed?
Because there’s a big difference between love and escape. One elevates you. The other drains you.
So I don’t look for saviors anymore. I don’t chase butterflies that only flap in chaos. I choose someone who adds to the life I’ve already built—not someone I expect to carry it for me.
And let me tell you—when you no longer need someone, but still want them? That’s when love gets real.
10. I stay away from emotional triangles.
I used to think that if someone wasn’t cheating, wasn’t openly in love with someone else, then they were “available.” But emotional unavailability wears all kinds of disguises—and one of the most confusing is the emotional triangle.
I’ve been in them. More than once.
There was the ex who couldn’t go 24 hours without calling his mother—about everything. What we should eat for dinner, whether it was “too soon” to plan a trip, how we should handle a disagreement. I wasn’t just dating him—I was dating their codependency. Her opinions were louder than mine in our relationship, and over time, I realized there were three of us in the room. I was always third.
Then there was the guy who was married to his job. Not in the cliché way people joke about. I mean fully, emotionally married. His schedule took precedence over everything. Every dinner was pushed. Every weekend had “one quick thing” that turned into six hours. And when I said, “I miss you,” he’d respond like I was being unreasonable. He didn’t cheat on me—but I still felt abandoned. He was always somewhere else. And I always came second.
That’s what emotional triangulation feels like: you’re not with someone, you’re competing with someone—or something—else that always wins. And you start bending yourself out of shape to earn a spot in their life.
I tried being more understanding. More accommodating. I gave space, tried to be “chill,” told myself, They just have a lot going on. It’s not personal. But over time, I felt lonelier with them than I did on my own. Because they weren’t actually in the relationship. Not fully.
Eventually, I learned: if someone’s emotional loyalty is already pledged elsewhere—whether it’s to a parent, a past partner, an addiction, their ambition, or even just their ego—I can’t build anything real with them. Not unless they’re willing to separate and show up fully.
Now, I pay close attention to how someone spends their presence. Not just their time, but their emotional availability. I ask:
-
Are they here with me—or are they half-distracted, half-committed, half-alive in this?
-
Do they make space for our relationship to grow, or is it squeezed between everything else they say yes to?
-
Do I feel like I have to fight for their attention—or does it flow naturally because I matter to them?
Because love shouldn’t feel like a competition.
It shouldn’t feel like I have to keep proving I deserve to be prioritized.
I shouldn’t have to earn the spot that should be freely offered if we’re building something real.
I want someone emotionally free. Someone who has dealt with their past, who isn’t glued to a surrogate partner (in the form of a parent, job, or obsession), and who’s ready to build something in the present.
Because I’m not sharing a relationship with a ghost. Or a job title. Or a mother.
I’m building a partnership. And that takes two.
Looking back, every one of these lessons came with a cost. Some cost me time. Some cost me trust. Some cost me pieces of myself I had to work hard to reclaim. But I’m not bitter—I’m sharper. I’m more honest. I no longer confuse intensity with intimacy, or effort with compatibility, or chemistry with character.
What I know now is this: real love isn’t about being swept off your feet. It’s about being grounded. Safe. Clear-eyed. Fully seen, and still chosen. And that kind of love only shows up when I stop chasing the wrong things and start choosing from a place of wholeness—not fear.
So no, I don’t regret the mistakes. They taught me what fantasy never could: how to recognize something real when it finally shows up.
