Category Archives: hopeless romantics

The Revolving Door Of Shattered Expectations

Today’s guest post is by Chelsea Tirrell, a girl who isn’t afraid to put her heart out onto the Internet — take it or leave it. I first found Chelsea through She’s The First, one of the first nonprofits to wholly hook my heart. Every time I read her blog, I feel like I’ve opened the middle of a novel and just started in on it. She also tweets, ‘case you were wondering.

“Girls are taught a lot of stuff growing up. If a guy punches you he likes you. Never try to trim your own bangs and someday you will meet a wonderful guy and get your very own happy ending. Every movie we see, every story we’re told implores us to wait for it, the third act twist, the unexpected declaration of love, the exception to the rule. But sometimes we’re so focused on finding our happy ending we don’t learn how to read the signs. How to tell from the ones who want us and the ones who don’t, the ones who will stay and the ones who will leave. And maybe a happy ending doesn’t include a guy, maybe… it’s you, on your own, picking up the pieces and starting over, freeing yourself up for something better in the future. Maybe the happy ending is… just… moving on. Or maybe the happy ending is this, knowing after all the unreturned phone calls, broken-hearts, through the blunders and misread signals, through all the pain and embarrassment you never gave up hope.”

After all of the romantic comedies I’ve seen. After all of the romance novels I’ve read. After all of the fairytales I’ve swooned over. After all of the reality and drama TV shows I’ve watched. After all of the relationship articles I’ve read in trendy magazines. There has never been a more true and trying quote than the one above.

“He’s Just Not That Into You” nailed every emotion I’ve ever felt, every reality I’ve ever faced, and every ounce of honesty I’ve ever needed.

It’s true; girls are taught a lot of stuff growing up. From the age of fairytales when we’re taught that a chivalrous prince in shining armor is meant to come and save us to the age of preschool when we’re taught that if he throws sand at you, he’s flirting, we’re given the wrong message.

Why aren’t there tales about Cinderella, who finds her own glass slipper and escapes her wretched family on her own will? Why are we taught to ignore the good guys making us crafts in preschool? Why can’t we accept their generosity instead of being taught at such a young age that rudeness is the key to a flourishing relationship?

Maybe it’s because we’re young and naïve that we believe these things. Maybe we just don’t know any better. But as time goes on and we do, in fact, get older, we have to face the facts that we’re still buying into the nonsense. Every aspect of the media tells us what our happy ending needs to be. No movie is complete without a couple happily together, no article is well-researched unless it tells you how to perfect your relationship, no story is a captivating one if it doesn’t include some heart-stopping romance.

We’re unintentionally taught that we need a man to be happy.

And I have to admit: I’m no different than any of you. I fell for it too. I still fall for it. But it’s these unattainable realities that have broken my past relationships and put a strain on my current one.

I still remember the first time I was denied. I slid over to a boy, Nico, in the first grade and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Almost immediately, he moved away. He didn’t want me but I didn’t give up. I thought his rejection was a signal that I should try harder. But that only ended in a heartbreak. It always does.

When middle school came along, I struggled with the same thing. You were cool if you had a boyfriend. I was happy with my two-week long romances and overjoyed when boys would ask me to dance. But it also led me to desperation. I would ask one boy out, he’d say no. I’d ask another, he’d say no too. This trend continued and continued until it finally shot my confidence into the ground.

How could this be happening? I thought when they were mean it meant they liked me? That wasn’t the case. Still, I wanted the jerk. The jerk was the one everyone wanted.

High school was a bit better but only because I met a guy who saw beyond my desperation, my awkward puberty stage, and my infatuation with finding love. His name was Ryan.

He sat through countless conversations with me as I ranted about how badly I wanted a relationship. He heard all about my passionate crushes and how I thought they’d last forever. He listened when I was sulking after every heartbreak.

And then there came a day when both he and I had enough. I was tired of being hurt, he was tired of my complaining. And he told me something that I never forgot, “You’re going to get older and you’re going to come into yourself. You’re going to figure out who you are and everyone is going to start chasing after you. You need to give yourself confidence.”

Little did I know, he’d be right.

Ryan and I tried the “relationship” thing out but it didn’t work. For once, though, I wasn’t torn up about it. It just seemed right that we parted ways. He went to college, I went to college and just like he said, everything fell into place.

I didn’t want every guy I laid eyes upon but I fell, and I fell hard, for Andrew. He was everything I wanted in guy. He was older, smart, involved, good-looking, sweet, caring. He also had a girlfriend.

I respected that at first but after hearing him rant about how unhappy he was in his relationship, I took the opportunity to make my move. It seemed to be working in my favor. Eventually, him and his girlfriend broke up and it seemed like we were on our way to something.

Finally, I told myself. Finally, I found a guy who wants me. My years of desperation are over.

That was short lived. Andrew lied to me. Andrew wasn’t who I thought he was. He hadn’t broken up with his girlfriend, he was still with her. And he wasn’t just seeing her and me at the same time — he was also seeing two other girls. Maybe more.

There wasn’t any heartbreak like it.

But that didn’t stop me. I was determined to cut him out of my life and move on to someone better. I was still in love with love and was determined to find someone who wouldn’t play me like he had.

Enter Jay.

We were friends before anything and usually, they tell you, that’s how the best relationships start. I was ready for this. A sweet, passionate, different guy who was so determined to have me. I gave him my love.

Just three months later, he shattered it.

Jay was my first real boyfriend. I was so excited to shout it out to the world, to let everyone know that I was no longer the single girl everyone expected me to be. I’d found something special. I was humiliated when I had to retract all of that happiness when he broke up with me out of nowhere. I thought we were happy. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

When you’re young, everything feels like the end of the world. I was 20 so naturally, I thought my dating life was over. I’d seen nothing but heartbreak, rejection, and people deciding that there was always someone better than I was.

Somehow, despite all that, I was still determined that I was meant for love. There was no way that someone with the capacity as large as mine to love would be left in this world without it. I was hurting but for me, my happy ending wasn’t knowing that I still had the chance to find love. My happy ending was exactly what the quote read. It was knowing that despite the break-ups, the over-thinking, the lost confidence, the hours of crying, the moments of thinking you’re unworthy, and the notion that you’ll be alone forever, I still believed in love.

I wasn’t bitter or angry for what they’d done to me. I wasn’t going around, saying I was single and loving every second of it. I didn’t swear off men. I kept my heart open and not once was I ashamed that I loved love.

And maybe that belief – that love exists despite every messy minute of relationships – is what led me to Louis.

When I met him, I didn’t know if I was ready for another relationship. I didn’t know if he was worthy of loving someone like me. I didn’t know if I wanted to give him a chance. But Louis did something that no other guy did – he stuck with me. He didn’t give up until I understood that he wasn’t like everyone else. He didn’t let me look past him just because he was a nice guy. He fought for me. And after months and months of uncertainty, I gave that patient boy what he was waiting for: my heart.

Almost a year has gone by since we had our first night together. It’s been about nine months since we’ve “officially” been together. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.

It’s not something that came out of nowhere, though. We need our past relationships to teach us, to make us stronger, to remind us of who we were and who we are now.

It took me a while to realize that I was partially responsible for my break-ups. It wasn’t just the guys’ fault. It takes two. My problem? I was trying too hard to be perfect.

I wanted the magazine relationship. I wanted the movie romance. I wanted the novel love. I expected my man to be a certain way. I wanted him to be exactly like the cardboard cutout we’re told to expect. I got angry when I didn’t have that. I was busy being someone I wasn’t to fit the mold of a perfect girlfriend. But that sort of mentality really breaks you.

I’ve weaned myself off of magazines. I’ve come to terms with the term “fiction.” And though I’m still a sucker for a good Nicholas Sparks’ film, I’ve learned to look at the films from a different point of view: Their love is the way it is because it suits them.

The moral of this post isn’t to scare you away from trying to be perfect. It isn’t to tell you that there is love after hurt. It isn’t to try and convince you that I’m an expert in love just because it’s consumed me.

While all of those things may reign true, what’s most important for you to take from all of this is to believe. Don’t let anyone – an ex, a best friend, a family member, a teacher, a boss – tell you to stop looking for love. Don’t let them tell you that you’re pathetic or desperate. Don’t let anyone change your mind or discourage you.

It’s hard, it’s work, it’s stress, it’s worry, it’s nerves, it’s anxiety, it’s uncertainty. But when you have it, and I mean when you really have it, there is nothing more amazing, more beautiful, more satisfying, more comforting, more wonderful, more spell-binding, more fairytale-romcom-romance novel-worthy than love.

Don’t ever lose your hope. Not for a second. Not when something like this is waiting for you. Everyone is worthy of it. Yes, even you.

By the way, every month I send out a short + sweet newsletter brimming with cool finds related to the monthly theme. It'd be stellar if you subscribed. If it's not worthy, it doesn't go in the newsletter. That. Simple.

Swapping Prince Charming For The Boy Next Door

Today’s guest post is by Emily, my best friend of ten years and a girl who taught me that love is risky and terrifying, but oh so worth it. She taught me to make time for the people I love, no matter the miles, and to give love to strangers on street corners. She does nothing with only half her heart. Today is her and her boyfriend’s five-year anniversary.

We’ve all heard it.

“Love is Patient. Love is Kind. It does not Envy. It Does Not Boast. It is Never Rude.”

And on and on it goes, painting a picture of love for us, a sweet and quiet, cookie cutter picture of love. It teaches us from the time we are little girls twirling around in ballerina tutus with plastic tiaras on our heads that happily-ever-after and prince charming are out there. Belle and Jasmine and their princess friends make that idea of love tangible, as if you merely need to reach out and grab onto it.

Fairy tale love is not something we stop believing in when we get too old for playground weddings with the boy who twisted his oreo in two and handed you the half with the cream. It is crooned to us through our car radio as we drive to school in the morning. It stares us in the face during Friday movie nights in our best friend’s basement.

We do not outgrow it; we just replace Prince Charming with the boy next door.

So, at 17 years old I believed in fairy tale love. And once upon a time in a diner not too far from here, on Valentine’s Day, a boy bought me a bouquet of deep red roses scattered with Queen Ann’s Lace. That boy walked me to my car, in true gentleman style hugged me goodnight and turned to leave.

I didn’t know very much about life at all but there was one fact I was sure of: that boy was all wrong for me.

That boy put too much sugar in his coffee. He talked too much and he wore a trench coat. That boy was everything I was not, yet something stirred inside of me when he turned to leave that night.

So instead of letting him slip away, my hand reached out for his hand and I pulled him to me. Without a thought or hesitation, I kissed him.

I never would have guessed the impact on my life that that kiss would have. It led to five years of kisses, and laughter and lessons of love with a boy who was all wrong for me. A boy who taught me that the love we grow up dreaming about is not realistic. Because fairytale love is just not good enough.

I wanted to share what I’ve learned.

Love is Silly.

A realization that came to me when slipping his too-big shirt over my head and shimmying into his navy fleece pajama pants. Knotting them twice. All the while singing a spur of the moment song entitled “Pajama Time.” A song he joined in with. Love is tickling and playing and lying tangled with each other on the couch, whispering secret nicknames and jokes only the two of you will laugh at.

Love is loud.

It does not sit quietly and let you ignore it. It plays like a catchy song in all of your thoughts and runs like adrenaline through your body. It wants to be screamed from the rooftops and whispered again and again to the boy you cannot satisfy your craving of.

Love is made of small things.

I barely remember our one year anniversary. I cannot list off every Christmas and birthday gift. But what I can tell you about the boy I fell in love with is that he holds open doors for me. When it is down-pouring he pulls me outside because I confessed once that I always wanted to be kissed in the rain. One drink too many and he’ll text me the lyrics to my favorite Taylor Swift songs, even though he denies knowing them.

It is Always Changing.

I cannot tell you how it feels to be in love with someone because every time I think I have it all figured out something else in my heart stirs and I find the feeling once again indescribable.

It is not easy.

A thought playing on repeat in my head when I said words that stung my heart: “I’m moving. And you’re staying still. And I don’t know how to hold on.”

It punched me in the face as I lay sobbing into my best friends couch cushions about the cracks he carved in my heart. It was a bystander when we were screaming in a parking lot about jealousy and broken rearview mirrors.

But It is Always Worth Fighting For.

A realization made after every time I could have turned and walked away from him. But there is a reason I pulled him back to me that night five years. A reason even I cannot understand and still want to find out. A reason that I feel every time our hands find each other without realization or each time I catch him watching me with his green eyes.

If there is one thing to carry with you and pull out on a rainy day it is that you shouldn’t keep looking for patient, kind old love. While it is a wonderful picture, it shields us from the idea that love can be loud and crazy and not want to wait until the timing is perfect.

It doesn’t have to be fairy tale because it can be better.

And Prince Charming? Well he is out there, don’t you worry. But if you’re only looking for the white horse and shining armor you might glance right over him.

In fact he might be the guy right in front of you, who pours too much sugar in his coffee and talks too much and wears a trench coat. Silly, I know. But that’s what love is.

Why Being Alone Makes You Ready For Something More

Nine months ago, when my parents shut my apartment door behind them, quietly extricating themselves, my biggest fear was something altogether unexpected.

It wasn’t starting my first job out of college, flying solo in a brand new place, learning the names and faces of strangers. It wasn’t mastering my Saturday morning route to Target or analyzing the best times to grocery shop.

I was scared because, for the first time, I was alone with myself.

In high school, I had clung to lack of a relationship status the way one might a shrunken recreational league soccer t-shirt from their youth: with the comfort it brought, the fear of being somebody’s Somebody much too much to stomach.

Then, mid-way between high school and college, I jumped feet first into a real relationship. It felt a bit like landing in one of those sidewalk chalk sketches in Mary Poppins: like this world was always beneath my feet, but I’d been too busy fearing the fall to see it.

For eighteen months, I became half of someone else’s whole. I let that relationship consume me.

My habits, my opinions, my unsure tendencies? They wrecked me.

For almost three years, I alternated between being defined by others and closing them out for fear they might not like the person they’d pinpointed.

People pushed me into corners, telling me I was never as good as them. I let myself become best at one thing: not handing my whole self over.

And so while I wholly adore the life not tethered to another breathing soul, it’s probably for all the wrong reasons: that I’ll be judged, in the worst possible way, as someone who cannot possibly be understood over a plate of pasta or a cup of coffee; that I’ll be too quiet, too thoughtful, too introverted, too passionate about all the wrong things; that I will be the sort of person who makes you cock your head and think, “Huh, well if that’s what makes you happy…”

And that’s wrong. Let’s just call it what it is.

We weren’t meant to tout singledom like an exemplary indication that we are somehow better for not putting our heart into someone else’s hands and closing their fingers over it, whispering a brief “please be careful” before kissing their cheek.

We are not better. We are not worse. We are just in this place where right now, aloneness is the scariest, most rewarding thing we need to hold. Not hands or hearts or silver diamond bracelets, but our truest selves.

That’s what this living alone, this owning up to myself, has been. It’s what being single should allow: a moment, however brief, to know who you are when you don’t have to be somebody, when you don’t have to impress somebody under some false pretense to make them stay.

Someday, you’ll be able to jump into a relationship and know you really, really dislike folding the laundry, or wearing your hair up, or driving fifteen miles over the speed limit.

You’ll feel content with that, won’t have to messy it with self-effacing thoughts.

You’ll feel right when your hand finds another on a snowy Saturday afternoon.

You’ll know, maybe for the first time, that you don’t have to apologize for you. And you’ll be OK to dive into something more.

This Messy Thing Called Love

Sara Brink is a girl who spent her whole life living within arm’s reach of me, neither of us knowing it. She’s also probably Taylor Swift’s biggest fan and writes her stories in a way that has you sure this was your memory, not hers, flashing onscreen. If you haven’t already, find her on Twitter + keep up with her on her own blog, where she’s making her way toward an editor’s life, love lettering the streets of Philadelphia and NYC along the way.

My first kiss was unexpected.

I was leaning against the giant sink basin in the basement of our youth group center, washing baby blue paint from my hands when he reached for my hips, spun me around, and planted his lips against mine. Just us two, in our faded tee shirts and paint splattered jeans, surrounded by bare concrete walls with only the sounds of a gushing faucet and faint footsteps overhead. Instinct kicked in and I surely kissed him back, but there was a solid marquee of “I have no idea what I’m doing” rattling through my head. My thirteen-year-old heart was caught completely off guard.

But his fifteen-year-old mouth wasted no time in saying “I love you.” He wasted no time before slipping his hand into mine, before stealing glances across the room, before calling me “baby” through instant messages on school nights. And I wasted no time in returning that sentiment, because it tasted so sweet lingering on my lips and it seemed like the right thing to do.

You don’t know the animal of love when you’re thirteen. You know the simplicity of “like.” You know that you like the boy who plays center field for the community baseball team, and you like that he wears his favorite hockey jersey as if it’s the only shirt he owns, and you like how he meets you at the swim club in the middle of Saturday afternoons, because it’s the halfway point between your houses.

But you don’t know love. You throw that four-letter word around thinking it’s so simple, that it encases exactly how you feel all tied up in a pretty package with a pristine white bow. But when you’re thirteen, you don’t realize that love is complicated, and powerful, and messy, like the mud puddles you splash in on your way home from the bus stop.

And you especially don’t know that people can so easily throw that four-letter word around. Like that hockey-jersey-wearing, sweet-smile-giving, center-field-playing boy, who breaks your heart a mere two weeks later by saying, “I love you” to your best friend.

Love can take you from sailing through the clouds to plummeting to the ground in mere seconds. It can break your thirteen-year-old heart with just a phone call. It can make you laugh, cry, sing, scream, spend hours on the telephone, smash a vase on your kitchen floor. It is the almighty emotion that some people spend their whole lives searching for. And you were naïve enough to think you’d found it at thirteen.

I eventually forgot about that boy. My wounded heart healed, I moved on to better things, and I used that four-letter word again. I learned more about love, and how it can unexpectedly wind and twist its way through your bloodstream to your pumping heart, how it can knock you off your feet for both the good and the bad.

And even ten years later at twenty-three, I still don’t know all the facts and figures about that dangerous four-letter word and the emotional avalanche that comes with saying “I love you.” But I can assure you that I “like” it.

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