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Today is Valentine’s Day, and the “cat lady” rhetoric hasn’t exactly died down. I’m resharing this essay about love, loneliness, and the reality that we don’t always know when love is around the corner — or a JSwipe away.

In recent years, I’ve noticed an uptick in vitriol aimed at so-called “cat ladies”—single women in their thirties and forties whose lives are allegedly composed of brunch, Pilates, and girlbossing. For the record: I prefer yoga to Pilates, I dislike brunch crowds, and I was never much of a girlboss.

Reading those comments hurts because I was single until my mid/late thirties. I spent holidays alone. Birthdays with friends. Office Christmas parties without a plus-one. And there is nothing quite like being alone during the holidays—no matter your religion.

And, Christmas Eve, about five years ago, was one of the lowest points of my adult life.

I had just left a job that was—at best—an unprofessional work environment. I’d had a string of failed romances- music producer! Sociology professor! Economist! Math-finance-computer guy! Magazine editor! (Like, the Busy World of Richard Scarry in the 2020s) I was thirty-five, unemployed, single, and staring down rent due in one of the most expensive cities in America.

It sounds like the opening scene of a Hallmark movie. But, it was my real life.

Several days earlier, I broke down crying outside FAO Schwarz. It was a beautiful New York winter days—sunny and full of families bustling around, thrilled to participate in Christmastime in the city. I was miserable in a job that hated me at least as much as I hated it. Seeing people who appeared to like their lives—who were, in that moment, surrounded by warmth and joy—was more than I could bear.

Afterward, I went back to my apartment, crawled into bed, and felt a palable loneliness. I was jobless in one of America’s most expensive cities. The only faintest romantic prospect in my life lived an ocean away—a man I’d flown to visit on a lark and a cheap-o Norwegian air ticket. I had no idea when, or if, I’d see him again.

I didn’t know what was next. But I knew it wasn’t my current mélange of unending stress, bad dates, and professional humiliation.

In the weeks that followed, I went to Equinox workouts (so sue me!), packed boxes, and plotted my move back to Washington, D.C.—something I managed with the grace of God and the help of a friend so generous I still don’t feel I deserved her. I watched HBO’s High Maintenance, a show about a weed dealer on a bike, and cried—not because of the drugs, but because the characters, however dysfunctional, seemed happy— something that felt unbearably out of reach to me at the time.

Looking back, I realize I had spent the previous years believing I could effort my way out of misery. If I just tried harder. If I weighed less. If my thighs were smaller. If my work presentations were sharper. If my email was better written. If my dating profile were better. If I did all of this, maybe—just maybe—everything would fall into place.

Everything worked out, but not for those reasons.

Through friends and sheer grit, I landed a contract working on one of the largest political conferences in America—a once-in-a-lifetime experience. That led to work at an influential think tank. Both were formative. I now run a business where I use nearly everything I’ve learned professionally to solve real problems every day. And the man an ocean away? He’s at the grocery store right now. He’s my husband.

There was a heatwave, and *sweat was dripping down my legs*. Thank goodness the makeup artist and hairstylist shellacked my face and hair!

I can’t promise it will get better tomorrow. Or next month. Or even in three months. But I can promise that it can get better. And it won’t come from more workouts, a promotion, or a better dating app profile. It comes from your inner strength.

If this Valentine’s Day feels sad, I won’t insult you with platitudes — nor will I promise a timeline for when things improve.

What I will say is you have the power to take small steps to re-build your life.