Tag Archives: Love

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It Won’t Be Perfect

It’s unusually warm in New York this season – the only indication that winter’s near are the white holiday lights and the fact that they glow at 5 p.m. I’m enjoying being able to sport my belted light-weighted jacket for more than a week (which is usually how long Fall lasts in the city), but sometimes, I think the weather is simply reflected more inside than out this year.

After a day of shopping for last-minute gifts and some gotta-have-it-can’t-stand-it buys, I caught the uptown train toward my apartment. Instead of reading this month’s book club book, reading my NBC news app on my iPhone or listening to music, I found myself semi-content people watching. But when the sight of the couple across the cart canoodling and the little girl singing “Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town” adorably to her grandma became all but a bit too much, I turned my attention to a place I hate to go. I started to drown myself in thoughts, though consciously know they are just that: thoughts, not truths, about what my relationship was with Mr. P.

These memories or once-beautifully constructed notions of that man are weakness of my spirit and mentality. They don’t go with the Kate Spade bag I splurged on as a Christmas gift to myself, the faux-fur Vera Wang muff that makes me think I’m classy or the expensive sheets I purchased only because I wanted to lay on something that he hadn’t shared with me. They don’t match my relentless, sometimes irritating (even to me) optimism or the dating advice I give to both those I love and those I’ve never met. They aren’t part of the made up 12-step program that is really a never-ending adventure of learning to love yourself, over and over again, after each and every man who comes and eventually, as they all do but one, leaves. They aren’t healthy for my self-esteem or my waist line, nor do I want them to have a place in any part of my New York story. They don’t correlate with my hopes for the future or the strength I’ve always tried to find in the bad, instead of focusing on all the things I’m afraid to really feel.

Like loneliness. Or feeling terribly alone, even surrounded by my friends. Or longing for someone that really, was never fully mine. Or disappointment, both in Mr. P and in myself. Actually, especially in myself. For believing, even against what everyone thought or said, whatever red flags were waving or what emotional obstacle I was ignoring, that he was something different. That he could be my someone different, that if we had been through so much together, then we’d make it through in the end. Or the pit in the bottom of my throat every time someone asks me about why we broke up (thank you public blog) and I say “it just wasn’t working out, we were in different places” because I know the truth.

The truth that just because I fell in love with him, for him, the idea of him or maybe a great mix of both, it doesn’t mean he had to fall in love with me, too. And he didn’t, so I left to find someone who could.

I get asked a lot how I do it. How everything just seems to work out or how I don’t give up on my dreams or how I have the courage to take chances when so much is often at stake. How I picked up and moved to a place where I knew next-to-no-one and a few years later, have somehow created a life for myself. There was really never any other choice than coming to New York, so I don’t consider myself brave for doing something that just felt natural. I’m hopeful because bitterness doesn’t look good on anyone and I’d rather be sad than to not feel anything at all. I say these things, I mean these things, but underneath the careful illustration of a beautiful life, lives the weakness, the sadness, the fears, the silly obsessions and even sillier fits of frustration that we all have. And that I definitely have, no matter how much I try to conceal with clever word play or under mineral makeup, Jackie-O sunglasses on the train and waterproof Lancome mascara.

Because those parts, those rusted edges, those Adele songs that I’ve practically worn out in the past three months make me ashamed. They make me feel like I’m wasting time and spinning wheels, when I’ve never hesitated or moved slow with any other part of my life. My friends remind me that it only hurts because it meant something, that I will move on and there will be others, that crying is part of healing and it’s just as natural as breathing when recovering from a breakup. I try to go on dates and I fight the urge to call him or text him when something simple reminds me of him or of us, and the days continue on. Some are as brilliant as the cascading street lights I can see outside of my apartment, and others, like today, bring me to tears on the subway that I avoid by staring intently down at my tattered boots.

And it’s nights like this one, where I lay across my bed, typing away because it makes me feel better, drinking red wine because it makes me feel even better, watching the shadows dance outside as I let the tears splash as they should, that I remind myself that it’s not supposed to be perfect. That I’m not supposed to be perfect. That while I might portray myself as the heroine of a sappy romantic comedy cast on Fifth Avenue, I’m really just human. And with that, comes all of the good that I’m so thankful for, and all of the bad that one day, probably, I’ll be thankful for, too. That falling in love with the wrong person is a rite of passage into the great love I hope is in my cards, and that while I may be afraid to try again, I know somewhere deep down, that I will.

That I will love with all that I have, even if it currently feels like it’ll be a little less than what I loved with before. That I will be brave enough to pack away all of those dreams I had for Mr. P and I away in a place that will be pleasant to visit when I’ve moved on and let go. That I will find peace in the ending and beauty in the fact that I stood up for love by leaving because I knew there was no sense in stopping believing. That I will let someone else into the places that barely anyone ever sees, into those parts that I’m ashamed of, of those parts that make me feel weak. That I will be some man’s partner, and for once, he’ll be mine too.

That it won’t be perfect, but because I never gave up on me, because I felt my way through the ways I needed to mend, because I allowed myself to be vulnerable, because I was courageous enough to say that love is possible, it will be. Even if before any of that can happen or before it can matter, it’s going to have to hurt for a while.

And I’m going to have to let it, no matter how imperfect it may feel.

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What’s Worth It

Oh he’s cute.

How was I here, sitting in this New York magazine-highly-rated restaurant, savoring things that would cost me groceries for two weeks? And with him?  Given, he’s not something that’s really that difficult to come by — going on a date with a banker is as common as seeing a cab, but finding one that’s emotionally is available is like trying to hail one when it’s raining, Halloween or New Year’s. Sources say dating in New York is nearly impossible, but I was still less than a year in and refused to believe them. I had yet to meet Mr. Possibility and the possibility sitting across from me seemed quite…possible.

As we nibbled on the appetizers he ordered so quickly I couldn’t understand him and cocktails he assured me were delicious (they actually weren’t), I listened intently to what he said, making mental notes of what I wanted to remember to tell my friends and mom later. Before the third week (or let’s be honest, the sixth), you really only highlight the positives of a man and carefully leave out the select details that could make him seem unsatisfactory, until you call frantically, in tears, spewing off why he’s really a big jerk. This guy was 28, right around 6’0, did something for a living that’s so terribly boring I don’t care to explain it, had a buzzed head with blue eyes and biceps, and though he wasn’t particularly funny, I found him charming. We easily bantered and balked at topics we both found appalling, shared childhood anecdotes and he asked to see some of my work. He talked about the family he wanted to have while I wondered why we were talking about babies on the first date, but went along with it anyway, softened by the soft heart I imagined he had. He commented on my hair as he reached to touch it and asked how I liked my eggs cooked. We said “jinx” when we both said Eggs Benedict at the same time.

Oh he was cute. And he never called me back. I imagine he’s somewhere out there, doing that tiresome banking job and frying up some other girl’s eggs. I hope he learned how to sip wine instead of gulping it.

Now, his silence would probably annoy me, but it wouldn’t bother me for too long. I would consider why he wasn’t interested, bitch a bit to my friends and then move onto to the next date. But nearly two years ago when that Mr. didn’t call me back – I was flabbergasted. Because even though he wasn’t exactly right and I wasn’t exactly that interested, the fact that he wasn’t intrigued by me, made me feel totally rejected. Without even knowing him, I made him up to be some sort of wonderful, picture-perfect, made-to-marry man who I couldn’t let get away.

I thought, what if there wasn’t another one? What if I don’t have another great first date like that again? What if there is no special chemistry or man who can afford fine dining when, at the time, I was barely getting along financially fine? What if I didn’t get asked out on a second date or a third one or any number, again? What if there was something wrong with me?

Alone in that tiny studio that now I don’t miss one bit, I went through the words I said, the flirty glances I gave and the exchanges we had. I couldn’t pinpoint what had gone South or why he wouldn’t contact me again. I drafted emails I never sent, sent SOS text messages to friends who, bless ’em, always respond, and updated my Facebook status with a cryptic quote from a poet I had never heard of until I Googled “disappointed quotes.” A few weeks of silence later, I gave up on the blue-eyed banker and agreed to another date that ultimately didn’t turn out well (I didn’t like him, this time), and I put it behind me.

But now, as I venture back into the often terrifying world of New York City dating, I feel different. I used to put men up on a pedestal, believing their presence was more important than my happiness, and that if only I could find a good one, I’d have the good life. That’s why one sour date or one un-returned BBM could send me into an obsessive, analytical frenzy that often convinced me I wasn’t pretty enough, endearing enough or good enough to be with a guy I thought was great.

What I’ve discovered is that the great ones are few and far between, so there’s no use in worrying about the ones who are unavailable, captains of disappearing, only interested until they get laid or masters of careful word play because that also means they’re cleverly playing my emotions, too. And so, instead of putting all of my expectations into one man or into one date, I try to follow my heart but lead with my head.

And this is the advice I give to my friends when they’re having the same frustrations that we all face while trying to find love. It’s not the same wisdom I gave a few years ago or in college — perhaps I’ve become hardened or cynical, but I don’t think that’s the case. I only really noticed a change in my perspective after one of my dearest friends (one of those who answers my dating cries for help) when she started a text message with “Can I ask you something and you not get offended?” After assuring her I wouldn’t, she replied, “When did you stop diving into love? Was it Mr. Possibility or before? When did you become rational?”

I don’t think I’m rational, really – I’m think I’m quite  an emotional, optimistic irrational person the majority of the time. It’s not that I stopped taking chances on men or that I don’t think falling carelessly in love is a foolish or impossible thing, it’s just that now, I know that I’m valuable and deserve to be appreciated. Perhaps Mr. Possibility showed me that by pushing me so far that I had to finally stand up for myself and for what I wanted.  Or really, what I deserved.

So now, my heart doesn’t create dreamy notions of what a guy could be after one date. He doesn’t get the privilege to be embedded into visions of my future through those rose-colored glasses I tend to wear just because he opened doors, listened to what I said, bought my dinner or kissed me sweetly on the street. Those are things, in my humble Southern opinion, that guys should do. They don’t get brownie points for being decent human beings, but they might get a spot in my life if they prove to me they’re worth it.

Because I already know that I am. Dating may be difficult in this city but it also supplies a never-ending supply of bachelors, most of which, aren’t deserving of my time anyway. But one day, maybe, there will be one who was worth all this trouble to find. And who, always calls me back.

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And Then I Met Him at Bryant Park

It’s too soon, I thought inching my way closer to Bryant Park. Why meet at this park, near this time of the year, when everyone is overflowing with warmth and rosy cheeks? It hasn’t been long enough for me to recover, why am I doing this?

I heard my heels against the pavement and felt my phone vibrating in my pocket — the emails could wait, it was time to face him. I made the decision to go here, I willingly agreed to be on time and bring my best self, and I needed a few moments before walking up the steps. You can do this. You were made to do this. You are beautiful and strong, there is no reason why you can’t smile when you see him. Breathe Lindsay, breathe, I encouraged myself as I turned my head, black-and-red umbrella in hand and caught a glimpse of him. I gasped as my heart sank and then exhaled when I felt the tension break.

He looks great. He looks happy and fresh, shining as brightly as a freshly-pressed suit from Bloomies. Is it possible he looks kinder? Did I never notice that sweetness in his eyes before? Goodness, after all this time, you’d think I would have. I approached him carefully, cursing myself for wearing heels on a rainy day when I just shelled out for a lovely pair of Michael Kors boots that would have been perfect — but I needed to look gorgeous on this night. I had to feel like a better version of myself, I needed to let the parts that weren’t fragile or mending highlight my energy. The first words were awkward and I found myself cautiously grinning, uncomfortable with my choice concerning this encounter. He was understanding of my hesitation and led me through the park gently, as pop-up store clerks greeted me with weary grins on this rainy night. Weather suitable for how I feel, I thought.

But he was different tonight and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. Perhaps he was calmer or more collected, less frantic and more together. He was gracious to the tourist, but had the same attitude about him that I first fell in love with. We didn’t talk much as we walked, but rather we observed this park that we mutually adored — both for its beauty and for the memories it brings. For each of us, I think, the visions of those little tables and waving trees in summer and winter, fall and spring, are as brilliant as they are bittersweet, but that’s what relationships weather, seasons of change.

After some wandering through escalating water sprawled on the sidewalks, we decided to do something that’s usually only reserved for drunken nights or moments of complete convenience and hunger: walk through Times Square. Without much to say and wanting to keep the pace quiet through a crowded place, we listened to Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin as we explored. He was a gentleman and led me through the least trafficked areas while being genial with my umbrella as winds whipped between building tops. With him by my side, even in his silence, I felt relaxed and peaceful, and I wondered why I had been so distant for so long. I couldn’t fight the urge to tell him how sorry I was for being cruel and cold, for not answering calls or listening to my desires because I feared how I would feel afterwards. I confessed that I had often thought of him in those lonely, empty hours inside of my apartment with no roommates around, with no one close by, and that I couldn’t count how many times I nearly hopped the subway to surprise him.

He returned the sentiments – telling of times when he wondered where I was or when I’d return to him. He reminded me of the home we built, the time we spent and the relationship we put so much effort into fostering. We talked about the good times – at that glorious Bryant Park and at Rockefeller Center, on the Highline, walking around Chelsea and the Village and discovering neighborhoods that I’d never known. As he spoke, I started to feel guilty for my absence and for those doubting thoughts – had he really been that bad? Was it his fault? Maybe I had been a little too harsh in this situation. 

Before I could let my emotions get the best of me, I knew I needed to eat – only eating a salad and some cashews for 12-hours doesn’t do this gal’s body good. I offered to buy him pizza at the next 99 cent shop we passed and he gladly accepted the challenge of finding a no-name place in some corner of the wall of some street in the heart of Times Square. When we found it, I giggled at the cliché – here we were, making another impression on one another that neither would be able to forget. Maybe this was a bad idea after all, maybe it is too soon, I wondered as I waited on my mushroom-and-olive slice that definitely broke my new diet. I didn’t care though, I wanted to savor something I love, like pizza and of course, him.

As we walked under the umbrella, finishing our slices and approaching the train, I wondered if this was where the story would end. A brave, brief rendezvous with so much communication, though no one could hear it but us. I craved to be with him more, but my feet hurt and my heart was reluctant to continue an affair that I knew could be difficult to endure. I had allowed him to break my heart before, I had shunned him and been less than forgiving – would anything really change if I kept seeing him? Or maybe I’ve just been listening to all the wrong voices, all the wrong advice, and letting all the wrong people into the places and relationships I value the most.

And then, he wanted to walk me to my door. Considering that required a ride uptown, I questioned his motives. He promised not to come up because surely, he couldn’t – but he just wasn’t ready for the night to end. I was uncertain if the magic of the evening could continue past Central Park, but something inside begged me to take the chance. And so, we caught the train. We read New York magazine and he glowed at the several articles about himself – still arrogant, I thought. Approaching my stop, a warrior for the homeless entered the doors, offering warm food and crackers to those without raincoats or cheese-and-dough filled bellies, a meal for the evening. I thought it was kind until I heard him say he was homeless too, and then I found it inspiring. Without consideration, we gave change and admired the giving and concerned faces of those across from us. The splendor of the season reflected off of their faces and came out as pennies of hope from their pockets.

When the doors opened and we turned our faces up to greet raindrops, we found there were none. I put away my umbrella and walked as slowly as I could, though inside my toes were pinching in their soggy soles. There wasn’t much left to say as we stood in front of my doorway, except for promises to be made. I swore to not let anything come between us again and he swore to continue to give me evenings like this one. I promised to be more forgiving and allow him back into my life, even if I was afraid, and he promised he would always be there, no matter what happened. There was no kiss or hug, just a mutual sense of relief and that undesirable feeling of peace that only he can bring to my soul.

It really had been too long and yet, maybe it was too soon, I concluded as I pushed the 7th floor button. But really, I could never have let Mr. P come between me and him–my New York–for long. Cheap dollar pizza and Bryant Park? My first love has always been this place — and it was time to stop letting memories have anything to do with guys I’ve dated, and let them be about the man, the city, that first stole my heart. 

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A Little Thanksgiving Hope

Thanksgiving has always been an odd holiday for me. I’m not sure my quaint family-of-three ever knew how to handle it — my mother’s siblings always did their own thing with their respective mates and we never traveled up North to share the feast with my dad’s side. Most of the Thanksgivings I remember centered around my mom, my dad and me — maybe my grandmother would join, but more often than not, it was just us.

We’ve always had the same things: mushy mashed potatoes that I love so much I ever-so-elegantly scoop with my fingers when no one is looking, baked mac n’ cheese, brocoli & cheese casserole, rolls, cranberry sauce from the can, rolls from another can and green beans (not the casserole, but the frozen kind). We never dressed up for it, though I insisted a few years to be a tad fancy when I was a teenager out of vanity. I never helped cook until I took up baking in high school and then I was determined to bake a mean apple pie every year. To this day, my dad requests one to be sent to him.

It’s a little too pricey to fly to North Carolina twice in a six-week period, so I spend Thanksgiving with my friend E, who hosts a pot-luck type dinner for all of the out-of-staters who stay in-city for the holiday. Sometimes we call it Tanksgiving (ahem, a lot of wine is served) or I’ve heard it called Friendsgiving, where we try to recreate those fabulous dishes our parents or aunts seemed so good at fixin’ up. It’s always a good time and usually a night that ends early, offering a mandatory sleep-a-thon until early Friday morning.

This year isn’t really different, but it sure does feel that way to me.

After getting off work early, I rushed home to turn on some Frank Sinatra and enjoy having my five-person apartment all to myself. I completely destroyed the kitchen making a mac n ‘cheese and an apple pie (of course!), then I cleaned it before going to bed, frankly just out of fear that if something happened to me, I couldn’t have anyone finding the apartment a total disaster. Everything was fine and fine was my attitude, but Ol’ Blue Eyes didn’t get me in the festive mood as he usually does. My dishes turned out great (I always take a little nibble) and I tweeted and Facebooked about looking forward to stuffing myself way past the point of being able to wear a sweater dress, but something was off.

With my hair done-up in a high bun, a glass of orange juice to keep me company and an iPhone on 20 percent battery, I sat down to write Christmas cards. After a few, I put down the pen and sighed, annoyed at my disposition and wondering what was bothering me. Do I miss my family? Do I think I should be spending it with them? Is it that I thought I’d be spending it with Mr. P and his family? Do I feel bloated from the miniature dish of macaroni I made myself? What’s wrong with me?

 Too frustrated to write sweet sentiments or to even sit down, I got up and paced my apartment, trailing my hand along the hallway, gawking at my room like it was the first time I saw it. And that’s when it hit me: nothing’s wrong, I’m not sad or upset really — I just long for a home.

The city itself feels like home, I couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. I’ve somehow gathered an incredible group of friends that feel like my family-away-from-family. I’m so incredibly thankful that I’m one of the lucky ones who landed a job she loves and looks forward to going to everyday. I’m healthy and fit, attractive and intelligent, and mostly I’m surrounded by the positive energy of all that I’m involved in and all who love me. But it’s a funny thing living in an apartment complex with strangers you met on Craigslist that somehow turned into friends — as much as you try, it’s not like having a family or building a home.

I’m far too young to think about such things, I’m told. I shouldn’t worry about the future or the husband I’ve yet to meet, the kids I’ve yet to procreate. I have so much living and learning, exploring and traveling ahead of me, I shouldn’t want to settle my roots for years to come. I have the freedom of coming and going as I please, doing as I wish and being totally selfish with my choices, my money and my actions.

And for once, I do actually enjoy the single life — but as much as my career, New York and my fabulous friends are important to me, I sometimes wonder what my future would look like sans marriage or children. Would I finally buy a house somewhere outside of the city all on my own? Or maybe an apartment that I could decorate as I desire? Would I freeze my eggs and revisit them at a time when I was ready, even without a man? Where would I spend Thanksgiving? With my friends and their husbands, or back home with my parents? What would my life look like?

A year ago when I was writing this blog, those thoughts would have angered me. I would have convinced myself that those were negative, love-addicted notions that have no place on this space. I would have been upset that I wasn’t stronger, or even worse, I would have let those fears dominate my thinking and cried myself to sleep on Thanksgiving Eve. But this year, they’re just thoughts. Nothing more, nothing less — just ideas of what my future could or couldn’t be.

Because you know what? Being a strong woman who’s happy (and totally thankful) for her life doesn’t mean that she doesn’t crave happily ever after with a man. (Even if she’s unsure of what the “after” refers to, really.) It doesn’t mean that romantic fantasies are far-fetched or detrimental, they are just part of what we hope tomorrow brings. It doesn’t make us weak or less together or successful, it just makes aware of what we want while knowing that should that not come, we’d be fine otherwise. It doesn’t make us silly because we dream of sharing memories with a man who wants to make memories and have anniversaries, holidays with us.

The Thanksgiving memory I wish to recreate is a memory that was never mine — but something I watched on home videos of my parents. It was my second Thanksgiving and I was strapped into a booster seat, nibbling on baby corn and wearing an adorable brown and red dress (thanks Mom!), with the camera set up to get the whole dinner scene. The tape rolled for nearly an hour-and-a-half, my parents just had to capture the first Thanksgiving they thought I’d remember. I sat and watched the whole segment once, and my favorite part had nothing to do with how I giggled at my dad impersonating a turkey or my icky-face at cranberry sauce (I still make it) — but at an intimate moment not meant to be captured:

My father reached across the table and grabbed my mother’s hand as he said: “You’re so beautiful. You’ve given me the best life and a beautiful daughter. You’re the love of my life.”

So today, I’m thankful for so many things, but one of those happens to be that I have the courage to believe that one day, those words could be spoken to me.

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The Wisdom to Know the Difference

The mirror that I get ready in front of each morning hangs on the back of my door, surrounded by things I love. Photos of people I know and those I aspire to be like, quotes from calendars four years old and fortune cookies that wished me well, notes from my friends and family, postcards from places I’ve never been — they all are taped and tucked in the edges of a cheap white-framed mirror that came with the first apartment I had in New York.

Maybe mementos are as much a part of my design scheme as the color purple, which captures my attention more than any other shade, for a reason I don’t understand (I hardly wear purple!). I like to be reminded of things that make my happy and as a writer, nothing touches me more than encouraging or engaging words of others, or photos that speak more than any blog could detail. One of the items that I’ve kept around since before college is a bookmark my dad gave me when he was sick and could only express himself through gifts — his own voice too weakened to speak. With a fuzzy beaded tassel and a rainbow in the background, it read the serenity prayer: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.

It’s most well-known as the mantra of Alcoholics Anonymous, but the hope goes for anyone who is trying to overcome anything — where it be a dream passed by or a relationship gone dry. The latter for me, is the most difficult right now.

I hate still writing about him and I hate more that the emotions that invoke me the most to type on these pages are the ones I try to hide from everyone who knows me best. They are the hidden wounds I only let out at nighttime when I’m alone in my room, listening to my roommate play piano and sing with her adorable boyfriend, wishing that things could have just been different with Mr. P. Finally, I’m mature enough to realize that our demise had nothing to do with me and I don’t blame myself for the ending, nor do I want to return to a dysfunctional, one-sided relationship, but it’s my own thoughts-of-what-could-have-been that keep me awake at night and require under eye creme each morning.

Accepting that you can’t change another person, that you can’t love them enough to make them love you in return, that you can’t hold so tight that they see you as irreplaceable, that you can’t turn someone into a better version of themselves, no matter how many letters you write, emails you send, voicemails you leave or love you make with them — takes serenity. It requires constant mental reminders that you’re worth more, that lack-luster anything is just that – lacking of the beautiful luster that comes from a partnership worth the work. Letting go of someone who never latched on to you emotionally can make you feel like it was impossible for someone to fall in love with you, but that’s when that courage comes in. That’s when you have to be brave enough to realize that while this person wasn’t right for you, no matter how much you believed they could be, if history proves anything, it’s that once we love someone, we can always love someone else. It often gets better and stronger every time around.

But only if we are wise enough to realize the difference between what we can change and what we can’t. In every relationship, it’s the different between knowing you can only control yourself and your actions, not a guy’s decisions and his emotions. And if he isn’t giving you what you want or what you deserve, your only option is to walk away, even if that’s the hardest task of all.

Outside of my favorite pub in midtown east, a tad tipsy from cheap white wine and Blue Moon, I looked inside to see my favorite girls laughing and bundling up in their coats and scarves and then outside to the city that makes me feel at home, and though I was tempted to text the only man I’ve loved in New York, the frustration and the trouble that always comes from contacting him, kept me from pushing send.

Because these women always keep me laughing, these streets breathe new life into me, and I’m lucky enough to know the difference between the things that are good for me and the things that are bad. And since no one I care about would ever try to change me, I can’t expect to change someone I once (and let’s be honest, still do) cared for deeply, it’s not what is best for me or for him. But I can change myself and my perspective – simply by looking at all that I have around me. The serenity is there, if I’m brave enough to look for it.

And maybe someday, there will be a someone who will bring that same serenity, without having to change either of us, at all.