Searching for Love

The more I have to lose, the more I worry.

I suppose I’ve always been this way. Of course, no one wants to get hurt, lose the things that matter, or feel let down. But lately, I’ve been trapped in a cycle of overthinking—how my fear of rejection twists reality, how my mind conjures up impossible standards just to shield me from disappointment. The moment I consider taking a chance, stepping into the unknown for something I truly desire, that familiar dread rises like a tidal wave, threatening to pull me under.

The Weight of Worst-Case Scenarios

For years, I mistook my pessimism for pragmatism. Expect the worst, and you’ll never be disappointed, I told myself. I wore my skepticism like armor, convinced it was just part of my charm—a defense mechanism disguised as wisdom.

But then came therapy. A depression diagnosis. Hours spent dissecting my own mind, unraveling the tangled threads of fear and self-preservation.

It’s one thing to be a brooding nihilist at sixteen—it’s almost expected, even poetic. But at twenty-six? It’s exhausting.

Why does my brain default to catastrophe? Why can’t it, just once, lean into hope without me forcing it? Over the past few years, I’ve cringed at my own confrontational edges, the way sadness clings to me like a second skin. Managing these emotions is a full-time job, even after acceptance.

The Fear of Abandonment—A Ghost That Never Leaves

But let’s cut to the heart of it: I am terrified of waking up one day to complete abandonment.

This isn’t some abstract anxiety—it’s rooted in experience. The echoes of past losses whisper in my ear, reinforcing the belief that every good thing is temporary. That at any moment, the people I love will vanish, leaving me standing in the wreckage of another failed connection.

It’s a special kind of hell, living with the constant dread of impermanence. To feel like happiness is borrowed time, like love is a ticking clock.

The Paradox of Wanting Love But Fearing It

And yet…

Despite all this, there’s a part of me—small but persistent—that still wants romance.

After years of working on self-love, after filling my life with deep friendships and familial bonds, that longing hasn’t disappeared. Somewhere inside me, there’s still a teenage girl clutching a notebook full of daydreams, sighing over fairy-tale endings.

But here’s the problem: I don’t trust myself.

I’ve loved before. I’ve been in relationships. And yet, some days, I feel like an amateur, fumbling in the dark. Other days, the whole idea of dating feels tired—like I’ve already lived this story a hundred times, always ending up bruised. So I retreat into the safety of my imagination, where love is perfect and no one can hurt me.

The Illusion of the Perfect Partner

Then comes the unsettling realization: What if I’ve invented an impossible ideal to protect myself?

What if I’ve sculpted a fantasy partner—someone just out of reach—so that no real person could ever measure up? I tell myself it’s about standards, about knowing my worth. But what if it’s just another way to stay safe?

Because if no one can compare to the flawless love in my head, then I never have to risk the messiness of reality.

And yet… that’s no way to live.

Maybe It’s Okay to Want to Be Wanted

Here’s another truth: I’m tired of being the one who initiates. The one who plans, who reassures, who carries the emotional weight.

I’m a strong, independent woman—but damn it, sometimes I want to be chosen. I want to feel desired without having to orchestrate it. I want to be the princess in the story, just once, instead of the knight always fighting battles.

Is that so wrong?

Embracing the Uncertainty

Maybe the answer isn’t in forcing myself to lower my standards or to "just be happy alone." Maybe it’s in accepting that this uncertainty is part of the journey.

That even if my brain screams "What if you end up alone forever?"—I am still enough.

That love, if it comes, will be imperfect. And if it doesn’t, I won’t collapse.

Because at the end of the day, the most important love story isn’t the one I’m still searching for—it’s the one I’m already living. *Mine.*