I am the same age my mother was when she got engaged to my father: 18 and some change. She once said to me, in regards to her early marriage, “I feel like I didn’t get to experience girlhood in the way I wanted to.” And over sushi and a shared Diet Coke, we discussed how, if she could do it all over again, she’d make a lot of different decisions. After all, she really was just a girl when my father got down on one knee.
I have always been a “hopeless romantic.” I’ve doused myself in romantic media for as long as I can remember — from sappy romance books featuring slow burns to forced proximity to rom-coms from the ’90s, I’ve seen it all. Taylor Swift’s iconic love songs have topped my personal charts since I was granted the unlimited freedom of Apple Music at 12 years old.
I have built my life and my expectations for love around things that haven’t actually happened to me yet.
Growing up and hearing the romantic story of my parents’ happy union (for however long it lasted, at least) gave me the idea that “Mrs.” is a title I should strive for. My mother, my mother’s mother and my father’s mother were all married young. The women in my lineage seem to have a generational expectation (or curse) that marriage is what is primarily expected of us. And who would I be not to follow suit? The famous line my father said to my mother the first time they met was, “Do I have to date you, or can I just marry you right now?” They would go on to spend the next 15 years together raising two kids before eventually divorcing. My parents’ love story might not have been a happily-ever-after, but that did not stop me from idealizing it. I continued to search for love every chance I got and, unfortunately, this meant that I spent the better half of my formative years with a boyfriend or talking to some guy. And — despite the hundreds of lectures from my mother about the importance of a fulfilling life beyond romantic love, urging me to avoid her own mistakes — I still grappled with the belief that, if I couldn’t consistently experience love in a romantic sense, I might be unworthy of love altogether.
After several failed relationships and many “I’m sorry, it’s not you; it’s me” conversations, I thought that the aforementioned “one” had finally come along. It was the spring after my junior year of high school, and I was fresh out of a breakup when a coworker, whom I’d admittedly had my eyes on for some time, kissed me at a party. After a whirlwind of butterflies, slightly awkward first dates and stolen glances at work, we began dating. This would go on for another year and a half. I was happy. I was content. I loved his family and the way he used my first and middle name when he said something to me. I truly, wholeheartedly, felt that I had found the one. We would go to farmers markets, dance around the kitchen at midnight and cook like we were already a seasoned married couple. I’d pictured the day he’d put a real ring on my hand and how we’d adopt a little Dachshund; that’s how convinced I was.
In August of 2023, I found myself unpacked in my blisteringly hot Mary Markley Residence Hall double, ready to start my freshman year of college. The night before classes began, my boyfriend and I, now 88 miles apart, decided to FaceTime. I was sitting on the stairs of the School of Public Health when he told me, “It’s not you; it’s me.” I can still remember the way my heart dropped — my world came crashing down in a matter of minutes. I’m told now that this is a canon event; everyone breaks up with their high-school sweetheart the first semester of freshman year, but at the time I was convinced I was alone in this heartbreak. I cried, begged and pleaded for him to change his mind, but nothing could stop the decision he had made for him, for us. I called my newfound friends and was met with sorry eyes and a big hug. These girls — girls I had met only a handful of days prior — were here for me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the platonic love these incredibly special women showed me would change my life for the better.
After the breakup call, I crawled into my twin XL bed and didn’t leave it for nearly a week. Absences began to pile up and I was already so far behind in my classes that I knew if I didn’t act now, I might not make it through my first semester at all. Getting broken up with made me feel like a failure. My life was constructed around the idea of everlasting love, and the looming threat of being alone forever made me question if anything I’d done up until this point was worth continuing. The safety net of an imaginary life I had built for myself vanished before my eyes, and I felt completely and utterly alone. I spent every Thursday in therapy with a woman who seemed like she had it all figured out; she had a husband, kids and a steady income. It was hard for me to listen to her tell me that I needed to find love in places that existed outside of romance when she already had it. But when she said those words to me, in the back of my head, I thought back to all of the times I had been given the same advice from my mother. In my heart, which I tend to lead with, I knew she was right. I couldn’t continue searching for self-validation through the presence of romantic love. To live a truly fulfilling life, I knew I had to learn that love exists outside of romance and that platonic and self-love can be just as, if not more, rewarding.
So I dragged myself out of bed and went to class. That was the first step I could take, at least. I will not sit here and say that I had an epiphany where I never thought about my ex-boyfriend again, and I was able to continue as if he had never existed. That would make me a liar. What I will tell you, though, is that my finger hovered over the “call” button, and I daydreamed about what it would be like if he came back and just said “sorry” — this happened more times than I’d care to admit. But I never did press the call button, and I stopped daydreaming eventually and started focusing my attention on things like the nitrogen cycle instead. I went out with my friends on Thirsty Thursdays and had dance parties in my dorm room. I ate Markley salads that sometimes had bugs on them and laughed about it until I cried. My newfound friends and I celebrated birthdays, more breakups, more hookups, losses, successes and everything in between. Then, slowly but surely, I realized that I’d done it. My fulfillment was coming from these wonderful women in my life, and even myself, rather than a boyfriend or a “talking stage.” I read books about existing by yourself and with your friends and finally came to the realization that I had a career to chase, not a man.
I will always deem myself a hopeless romantic; but instead of being hopelessly in love with a man now, I am hopelessly in love with my life and the beautiful, strong, selflessly kind women I have surrounded myself with. I am the quintessential teenage girl — I love doing my hair and wearing matching pajama sets. I love “The Hunger Games” and will always cry to “All Too Well (Ten Minute Version) (Taylor’s Version) (From The Vault).” I don’t need a boyfriend or a No. 1 best friend on Snapchat to prove to myself that I am worthy and capable of loving and being loved.
The other night, over my and my mother’s Diet Coke and sushi escapade, she detailed how she felt she missed out on the laughter, craziness and overall girlish ways most young women dance through their 20s. She, of course, gained two children and a lifetime of stories from the path that she chose, but what I must also mention is that finally, at 43 years old, my mom is on her way to receiving a doctorate in Special Education surrounded by her own myriad of intelligent, kind women. The years of lectures I received from her on building a life for myself that did not revolve around romantic love might have helped her gain that same insight in a way too. While my mother got her fairytale ending of platonic love eventually, in her recount, she never really did get to experience her younger years in the same way that I have the opportunity to now, and for that, I am beyond excited to take my 20s by their pigtails and experience girlhood, fully.
Statement Columnist Anna McLean can be reached at agmclean@umich.edu.