I'll Have What She's Having (By New Year's Eve)

Tonight I attended a webinar called Why Smart People Stay Single. The love coach told a story about how she spent years dating the wrong men until she finally transformed something deep within herself and met the partner she’d been searching for. I’m still a sucker for these stories. Even after everything I’ve been through—hell and back, honestly—I still believe in “sweet love.”

The truth is, I’ve spent the past few years building everything except my love life. I’ve written books, built businesses, and given a TEDx talk—and then flown home with no one to pick me up from the airport. Then I scroll dating apps, pick hot young men (I digress), and end up in “situationships.”

But during the Lion’s Gate portal in August, I declared: I will manifest my partner this year. I have my home, my stability, my peace. Now I want my person.

During the webinar, we did an exercise: finish the sentence, “In relationships, I always…” Without thinking, I wrote: I lose.

It surprised me. I didn’t even know that belief was hiding there. But it explains a lot. I’ve been a serial monogamist—boyfriends from age 14 to 44—and I never felt truly satisfied. My pattern was avoidant men, unhappy men, men who needed rescuing. Now, after six years single, I’m stronger, clearer, and quicker to notice when something’s off. I’ve learned to walk away. I’ve learned to protect my nervous system.

Being single has given me boundaries and healing I didn’t have before. Writing helped. Psychedelics helped. Solitude helped. But lately, I’ve felt tired of being hyper-independent. The moment I knew I was done? I was in the yard, covered head to toe in dirt, sweat, and scratches—battery dead on the mower, shovel handle broken, laughing out loud at myself. I thought: I should have a man who wants to do this.

I’ll always be self-sufficient, but I no longer need to prove it. I want devotion and safety. A protector. A chest to rest my head on. Someone handy and helpful, who enjoys fixing things and taking care of us. People assume I’d want a doctor or professor—someone “on my level.” But I don’t want to intellectualize my love life. He doesn’t need to be a genius. Smart is fine; practical is better.

When I picture reciprocal love, I see an old-school Sunday morning: two mugs of tea, reading the newspaper, jazz music in the background. (Do people even read paper newspapers anymore?) Maybe it’s just an old-school fantasy but it symbolizes something for me. It’s about the comfort of routine, the safety of being known, the pleasure of being ordinary together. Not jet-setting, not drama—just love that feels like home.

So yes, I’m diving all-in. I just signed up for the love coach’s course How to Be Love Ready by the Holidays—something that promises to reveal my blind spots and find me a nibble-worthy partner by New Year’s Eve. LFG.

I can already hear the holiday R&B playing, the sound of champagne glasses clinking…so send me prayers of manifestation, protection, and please God, let him smell good.

To be continued…