Why we think love can fix everything

Welcome to Single POV, personal essays from a single perspective of a not-so-single hopeless (sometimes disappointed) romantic

I never thought I had lucky girl symdrome until Olivia Rodrigo was announced as a surprise act at Primavera Sound 2026.

Yep, I was there.

I listened to her new masterpiece The Cure live—and I’m not one to connect to words when listening to music; instead, I feel it in the melody and the tone—and, on that night in Barcelona, I deeply related to those lyrics. It was as if I could watch my life as a movie trailer in front of my eyes.

But my head is full of poison
And my heart is full of doubt
I got toxins in my bloodstream
You tried hard to suck them out
And it feels like medication
And it's good for me, I'm sure
But it don't matter how your love feels anymore
It'll never be the cure

I watched my 23-year-old me distract herself with two-week-long obsessions. Trying to figure out how many hours it takes an avoidant crush to respond on WhatsApp was as important as understanding what a tax code is. She got used to burying discomfort, fears, and doubts, using them as compost to grow illusions in which a life full of romance was all it took to build a pretty life. It didn’t matter if it was rotten deep down.

The butterflies still came, occupying space not only in the stomach, but also every inch of her mind.

I had other goals: a successful career, settling in a new country, creating a fun and loyal group of girlfriends, etc. But for a few years, finding love became the one puzzle piece missing. Even if everything else were falling apart, somehow, those pieces would come together magically if I found that one. I think, maybe, it’s because it feels like fate.

When you’re searching for love, there’s comfort in believing it’s fate rather than responsibility. That feeling of failure—I could’ve done things differently, and maybe we’d still be together—doesn’t exist when you’re looking for it. If you want a relationship, it’s not just up to you. It’s simple: you put yourself out there, the universe helps you, and you meet the one. And, of course, we’ve all asked ourselves, ‘What’s wrong with me?’, but I’m a firm believer that everyone has their person. So, in a way, it’s a matter of time.

It’s luck—and it’s much easier to delegate our happiness to things we can’t control.

There’s also the media, as you know, I am obsessed with: romance. We’re all supposed to have it because it’s the exact path to happily ever after. You kiss your prince, and all of your problems are solved. Watching The Prince & Me made me realise we’ll never let go of that fantasy. As silly as it sounds, that still feels true in many ways. One of them is that, even if it doesn’t make everything better, you’ll have someone to share those weights with. We forget that they can’t carry it for us completely.

When the 26-year-old me found the love she was looking for, a lot of things did get better. I stopped journaling because I realised that almost all I wrote was about boys and how they disappointed me. Three years later, I am journaling again, about things that have always been making me feel pretty sad. The relationship didn’t fix them; it just took more space, so I had to put them in a closet. It became too much to keep the door shut.

We think a relationship can fix our lives because it’s the one thing that everyone has in common. We don’t like the same gender, have the same family structures, or share the same careers, but we all want love. And if we all want love, it means it’s the one thing you definitely need to be happy.

Maybe that’s why those lyrics hit so hard in Barcelona. Yes, romantic love can make life better. It can make it fuller, warmer, and easier to carry. But it can’t be the cure. The things that hurt before are often still waiting for us after it.

If you also feel pretty sad for a girl so in love, subscribe so you don’t miss the next Single POV essay.

Sincerely,
Renata 💋