(Originally, this was supposed to be a post about how we all yearn for romance. But after listening to Olivia Rodrigo and Robert Smith’s ‘What’s Wrong With Me’ enough times, I found myself wanting to write about something else instead. Then again, perhaps this shift isn’t really surprising, since according to my closest friends, I do have a peculiar talent for making the happiest things sound sad. So here it is.)
Having lived for nearly three decades, traveled enough and seen my fair share of the world, I’ve come to believe that within every human being lies a quiet, persistent yearning for a kind of love that feels almost eternal. The kind we chase through films, books, music and even art—essentially stories that exist because someone, somewhere, longed for it too. No matter how often we convince ourselves that we could live our entire lives without experiencing a love like that, deep down, most of us have yearned for it at least once. Especially when we catch glimpses of it in rare, fleeting moments, the kind that is real and enduring. The kind where you look at another person and think, ‘Yes, I would go to war for you. I would gladly endure all this suffering if it meant seeing you happy, because you would do the same for me.’ However, not many people talk about what happens after you find that person. No one tells you how life continues beyond the “happily ever after”, about the hurdles you have to overcome to reach it in the first place. In stories, we watch people fight desperately for the ones they love once they realize they could never find anyone else quite like them. They run through airports as though a phone call wouldn’t suffice, serenade each other in crowded public squares or reunite in places that hold years of shared memories. Those grand gestures mark the moment they finally admit their feelings for one another.
But rarely do we see what comes next.What happens after the confession? After the wedding? After the credits roll and real life begins? When the romance is no longer about chasing each other, but choosing each other every single day. Saying it is easy, but actually practicing it is really hard. No matter how healthy your relationship can be, it is important to remember that we are dealing with another person. A person with different personality shaped by his/her different life experiences and beliefs. We can never expect that person to always conform to our ideals, when we couldn’t conform to theirs. Relationships are a two-way street. No matter how aesthetically pleasing or healthy they may appear from the outside, we never truly know what goes on behind closed doors. A good relationship requires healing on both sides, as well as the willingness to set pride aside for the sake of the partnership. Many of us assumed that love is simply a matter of ticking the right boxes and waiting for the right person to show up. But it is far more complicated than that. Love requires us to communicate our needs openly—to tell another person how we wish to be loved, how we naturally express love ourselves and whether they are willing to meet us halfway. The same must be offered in return. It demands countless conversations, many of them difficult, without allowing them to descent into battles of ego and resentment. There are no real textbooks when it comes to love. And as someone who thrives in structured, formal learning environments, I have always found relationships difficult to navigate. I hated dating. I hate trying to make things work without clear instructions, hated the uncertainty and definitely hated the effort it seemed to require. Having witnessed enough unhealthy relationships—and having been in one myself—I became deeply wary of attachment. My view of love was, for a long time, a bleak one. Much like the song, when Robert Smith sings: “Head keeps pounding with the simple thought, ‘what if this isn’t what I want?’”
Perhaps this is why, even after finding myself in a healthy relationship, I spent much of the first year questioning it. Not because he had done anything wrong, but it was quite the opposite. There were no games to decipher, no mixed signals to obsess over, no dramatic highs and lows that kept me anxiously waiting for the next emotional storm. There was only consistency, kindness and patience. And, strangely enough, that terrified me.I had become so accustomed to believing that love had to be difficult, that it had to hurt in order to be real, that being loved steadily and without conditions felt almost too foreign. I kept waiting for something to go wrong, for the other shoe to drop. For him to wake up one day and realize that I was, perhaps, too much or not enough. In many ways, I found myself relating to the question posed in Olivia Rodrigo and Robert Smith’s “What’s Wrong With Me”—that persistent, intrusive thought that so often accompanies struggles with mental health: what is wrong with me? Anxiety, low self-worth and past experiences have a way of distorting love, convincing us that we are fundamentally flawed or somehow unworthy of being chosen. Even when someone offers us genuine care, those internal narratives can make us suspicious of it, as though love itself must surely come with conditions we have not yet discovered.
But perhaps love was never the thing that was wrong with us. Perhaps the real challenge lies in unlearning all the reasons we have collected over the years for why we are unworthy of it. In learning that healthy love is not found only in grand gestures or dramatic declarations, but in the quiet, everyday choice to stay, to communicate and to let ourselves be seen. Because sometimes, the hardest part of being loved is not finding someone willing to love you. It is believing that you deserve to be loved at all. Sincerely, Cherie. The Whiffler is free today. But if you enjoyed this post, you can tell The Whiffler that their writing is valuable by pledging a future subscription. You won't be charged unless they enable payments.
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