I Didn't Know I Needed This

You're twenty-two, sitting across from someone on what feels like your fiftieth first date this year, and they're telling you about their passion for craft beer while you mentally compose your exit strategy. Your phone buzzes with notifications from three different dating apps, each promising that your soulmate is just one swipe away. Meanwhile, you're wondering why every relationship feels like an audition where you're never quite sure if you got the part. This is the reality of modern romance—a landscape where we have more ways to connect than ever before, yet somehow feel more disconnected from authentic love.

Today's dating world operates by unwritten rules that seem to change faster than social media algorithms. We navigate talking stages that last longer than some marriages, decode mixed signals like we're breaking wartime codes, and often find ourselves settling for breadcrumbs when we deserve the whole meal. But within this chaos lies an opportunity for profound self-discovery. Every awkward encounter, every heartbreak, every moment of clarity teaches us something valuable about who we are and what we truly want. This journey isn't just about finding love—it's about learning to love yourself so completely that you never again mistake someone's inability to see your worth for evidence that you lack it.

The first time I took myself out on a proper date, my hands were shaking as I told the hostess "just one." I was twenty-two and recovering from what I now call my serial dating era—years of bouncing from relationship to relationship because being single felt like being in a waiting room before my real life began. I'd spent months building up the courage for this moment, walking the same five streets in the East Village before finally entering the sushi restaurant. Dressed in soft gray jeans with a tote bag full of books and lip gloss, I felt like I was about to perform in front of an audience of strangers.

As I settled at my table with a glass of champagne, something magical happened. The bubbles exploded on my tongue, and I realized I wasn't just celebrating being out alone—I was celebrating the person I'd become through months of intentional solitude. I'd learned to view myself not as someone desperately seeking completion, but as someone whole and interesting enough to enjoy my own company. The glow I saw reflected in the restaurant's mirror wasn't from external validation; it was the radiance that comes from genuinely liking who you are.

This journey to self-love requires dismantling the deeply ingrained belief that our worth is determined by whether someone chooses us. When we can sit with ourselves without distraction, when we can make decisions based on what we actually want rather than what we think will make us more appealing, we create space for authentic connections to flourish. The relationship with yourself sets the standard for every other relationship in your life.

My phone contacts told the embarrassing story of my Hinge addiction: Kevin Hinge, Kyle Hinge, Jake Hinge, Chris Bumble. I was matching with guys like it was an Olympic sport, staying up until my eyes could barely focus on the screen, swiping through New York City's most and least eligible bachelors. What started as a way to meet people had become a validation machine, feeding my need to feel desired while keeping me at arm's length from real intimacy. After fifty first dates with guys who all seemed to wear the same glasses, I realized I was treating every match like a potential life partner instead of what they actually were: interesting strangers.

The shame I felt about using dating apps reflected a larger cultural confusion about modern romance. We use the internet for everything else in our lives, yet somehow meeting someone online feels less authentic than a coffee-spilling meet-cute on the subway. But here's what those fifty dates taught me: dating apps aren't cringe if everyone is doing them, and they're certainly not cringe if they lead to meaningful connections. The key is approaching them with the right mindset—not as a desperate search for "the one," but as a way to practice dating, learn about yourself, and occasionally meet someone worth getting to know better.

The real magic happens when you stop treating every match like your future spouse and start treating them like what they are: opportunities to practice being yourself with new people. When you remove the pressure of finding your soulmate through a screen, you can actually enjoy the process of discovery and figure out what you're truly looking for in a partner.

Our second date was on a Monday because we couldn't wait forty-eight hours to see each other again. We met outside Chelsea Market in the rain, both of us without umbrellas, and spent an hour in a bookstore where he bought every book I recommended without even reading the back covers. As we walked through the wet streets, he pressed me against brick buildings and kissed me while cars skidded on slick pavement. It felt like the beginning of every romantic movie I'd ever seen, and I was already planning our wedding in my head.

But chemistry, I learned the hard way, is only twenty percent of the relationship equation. That intoxicating feeling of being unable to keep your hands off someone, of feeling like you've found your person after the second date—it's often just that: feeling. Real compatibility takes time to assess. It requires seeing how someone treats service workers, how they handle stress, whether they remember the small things you tell them about your life. It means asking yourself not just "Do I want to sleep with this person?" but "Do I want to navigate life's challenges alongside them?"

I also learned that finding my voice in intimate moments translated to every other area of my life. For years, I'd approached intimacy like a performance designed to earn validation rather than an experience to be shared and enjoyed. The first time someone asked me "What do you want?" during sex, I was speechless. Learning to communicate my desires, to say "I like this" or "Can we try that instead?" or simply "No, I'm not in the mood tonight," became a form of empowerment that extended far beyond the bedroom. When you can advocate for your pleasure, you can advocate for your needs everywhere.

Luke was the gift of being nineteen—his existence proved I could love again after spending a year convinced I never would. Meeting him felt like falling; I couldn't stop it, couldn't anticipate it. Gravity did her thing and suddenly I was flat on my face, wondering what I'd tripped over. We spent our first summer apart, just two months after we started dating, and when he visited me in New Jersey, we took a day trip to New York City that lived in my memory as one of the best days of my life.

But as time went on, I realized I would always come second, sometimes third, on Luke's list of priorities. He reminded me often that his career and school were his main focuses. I wasn't being emotionally manipulated like I had been before, but there was an obvious lack of effort. I spent my time begging for a slice of the pie that made up his life—an occasional date night, effort to see my play, or simple desire for me—but he could hardly give me a crumb. I wanted it to be different because I'd never felt that way before, but I couldn't change the fundamental truth: this is how it would always be with him.

The hardest lesson about love is that sometimes it isn't enough. We're told love conquers all, but a relationship needs more than love to survive—it needs communication, shared priorities, and two people willing to show up for each other consistently. Walking away from someone you love because you're incompatible is one of the most mature things you can do. It's choosing your own worth over the comfort of familiar dysfunction, and it's the first step toward finding something that actually serves you.

When my mother's best friend since grade school passed away suddenly, I was sitting in my Upper West Side bedroom when my dad delivered the news. This was a woman who'd been a constant in my life, someone my mother spoke to every day. They called each other soulmates, planning to retire together in Nantucket, sitting in matching rocking chairs. The bond between them felt unbreakable, magnetic, wondrous. As the reality settled, I thought of my own best friend Sadie and how it would feel to receive a call that she was gone.

That night, I texted all my closest friends—Sadie, Daphne, even my childhood best friend with whom I'd grown apart. I told them how much they meant to me, how sorry I was if I'd ever taken them for granted. It didn't matter that some of us hadn't spoken recently or that there had been misunderstandings. When it came down to it, I'd do anything for them. The loss forced me to see through a jagged keyhole in shattered glass: there is no state of being more indispensable than to be, or to have, a friend.

We forget to treat our friendships with the same intentionality we bring to romantic relationships. We plan elaborate date nights with partners but settle for quick catch-ups with friends. We communicate our needs clearly in romantic relationships but assume our friends should just know how we feel. The truth is, our friends are our soulmates, our anchors, our lifeboats. When we start dating our friends—planning special one-on-one time, having deep conversations, showing up consistently—we discover that platonic love can be just as transformative as romantic love.

The journey through modern love isn't about finding someone to complete you—it's about becoming whole enough to choose wisely when love arrives. Every ghosting, every situationship, every heartbreak is data, not failure. Each experience teaches us something valuable about our own needs, boundaries, and capacity for both giving and receiving love. The goal isn't to emerge unscathed but to emerge wiser, kinder to ourselves, and clearer about what we actually want rather than what we think we should want.

The most radical thing you can do in a world obsessed with being chosen is to choose yourself first. This doesn't mean becoming selfish or closed off to love—it means developing such a strong relationship with yourself that you never again mistake someone's inability to see your worth for evidence that you lack it. When you truly understand that you are already whole, already worthy, already enough, you stop trying to convince others of your value and start recognizing it in yourself. That's when real love becomes possible—not as a desperate search for validation, but as a beautiful addition to an already fulfilling life.