I once went on a date that the man insisted was a non-date. “Just a meeting,” he kept saying. A past version of me from just one year ago would have made this all about me: I’m not attractive enough for him, maybe I did something to turn him off, and so on. I did the same thing when an ex only wanted to hang out once every two weeks as well. I told him, “I don’t think you like me enough,” even when he kept insisting that he did.
But the version of me that went on this non-date was only mildly intrigued. She wondered what relationship experience this man must carry for this insistence. We met on a dating app, after all, not a friend or networking app. What was he trying to protect himself from? Potential rejection or feminine evaluation that can cut the male ego into thousands of pieces?
It did occur to me that maybe he really didn’t find me attractive, and this was a reasonable possibility since I wasn’t attracted to him either. But I was in no mood to convince a man who didn’t find me attractive that I’m attractive. This version of me stayed regal, unbothered, and curious. This version of me came home satisfied with the conversation. This version was ecstatic about her growth. This version loves herself to the brim.
The one-year-ago version would have spiraled and circled and wondered till the sun came out. But she was only trying to protect me. She thought love and connection for me were rare: “I have to get it wherever I can find it.” Maybe she’s more romantic than my current version, although a tad less practical, always assuming she had to take control of the situation.
Do I miss her? No, she was more antsy than me. I like grounded me more. But I appreciate her and love her. She existed to teach me some very important things about myself and life and love. How high and mighty it would have been of me to look down upon her, whose scaffolding I absolutely needed to get here?
Am I grieving her then? I’m grieving all the pain she had to endure over the years. All the people she allowed to hurt her. All the times she cried herself to knots. I’m grieving all the love she could have found for herself in herself, but didn’t. I’m grieving what could have been.
Every time I don’t make anyone’s actions mean anything about me, I remember her fondly. I thank her for her struggles. I smile and sigh. This, too, is grieving, my dear.
