what if love finds me and i'm still like this?

love is patient. love is kind. and i've avoided it for most of my life.

“If you could see your whole life from start to finish, would you change things?”

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Welcome back to Woman on the Cusp, where I write about that weird, messy space between who I used to be and who I’m trying to become.

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Lately, I can’t stop repeating this quote to anyone who will listen:

“No matter where you go, there you are.”

As someone who has spent a decade in therapy, I find that to be true. It’s such a simple concept. You can’t outrun yourself.

You can’t chase love for validation. Can’t travel around the world to escape yourself. When you turn around, it’s just you, staring back.

That’s why I’ve always wanted love. But deep down, I knew I wasn’t ready to receive it. I’ve been too mean, too harsh, too unkind to myself. I’m still struggling with the concept of unconditional love—the idea that I deserve to be loved simply for being me.

Love isn’t something you earn by being perfect. It’s something you get by choosing to actively pursue it. And this concept applies to every relationship in my life.

I actively choose to wake up and love my friends every day. I text them back. Pay for their coffee. Work out together. Watch movies. Sit close and giggle at the stupid shit I whisper during quiet scenes in a movie. To me, that is love. That is intimacy.

So why must we peacock ourselves for romance?

People talk about “spending their lives” with someone—but the pursuit of romance often makes us insecure. Why? There’s so much overlap between romance and friendship. Friends get our true selves. Lovers get some made-up fantasy. And over time, they discover the truth.

We put romance through a series of tests to see if we’re worth it.

This is why I believe almost everyone I know is settling. Or compromising.

Fundamental life differences. Political divides. Opposing love languages.

All up for debate—because we live and die by the belief that we can train someone to love us properly.

I call bullshit.

It’s all just smoke.

And if we let it clear, we return to the same idea:

“No matter where you go, there you are.”

That’s partly why love never seemed good enough for me. It always felt like slapping a Band-Aid over a wound that needed stitches.

My avoidance is just me, running into myself over and over again.

If I intellectualize love, maybe it will make sense.

If I ruminate on why it hasn’t come for me, maybe I can fix what’s wrong with me.

That kind of thinking is easier than responsibility.

It’s easier to feel like a victim of some unknown, cosmic force than to admit the truth: I’m scared.

I’m not scared of being unloved.

I’m scared of someone actually loving me back.

My therapist always told me I wasn’t open to receiving love. And I’m finally coming to terms with the fact that she was probably right.

I hardly ever went out.

I didn’t dress like I wanted to be seen.

Avoided conversations I couldn’t control.

Didn’t wear makeup.

Didn’t take care of my body.

Didn’t join clubs in undergrad.

Didn’t talk to my classmates.

I wanted to be left alone for a very long time—because to me, I wasn’t perfect, and therefore I didn’t deserve basic human connection.

One time, a guy in one of my classes emailed me to say he thought I was beautiful and wanted to get to know me.

It disgusted me so much that I lied and said I had a boyfriend.

Another time, I was walking into the science building, and a group of guys walked past me laughing, saying they would “still hit.”

I’ve gotten: Your eyes are so beautiful, you have a face poets write about.

And it’s all but disgusted me.

I only ever cared about—and obsessed over—the Mr. Nonchalant guys who would randomly decide today was the day we’d have a conversation. Mostly because I knew deep down they weren’t interested. But the idea of maybe kept my nervous system activated.

And I know that if I were to meet the love of my life right now, I’d ruin it.

I would sabotage it, and the relationship would crash and burn.

I’d test the hell out of him. And when he finally left, I’d say, See? I knew you didn’t really love me.

That’s not the kind of love I want to experience. That’s not something I want to dump onto another person. Because people do not exist to fix us.

I can’t lock myself away in a box until I decide now is the right time to emerge. I have to figure out how to let my life run parallel to the shadow work.

The healing.

The becoming.

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🧃 If this resonated, share it with someone who thinks being single is a disease. Or hit reply and tell me what being alone taught you.

And if you're new here — welcome. Woman on the Cusp is a series where I unpack growth, womanhood, and the soft power of choosing yourself. Subscribe below to never miss a Monday.