It's Taco Tuesday—well, really, it's girls' night turned Taco Tuesday at my good friend Val’s house. Her apartment is this cozy space where you can get lost in the art that covers the walls. I’m curled up on the couch; I’ve helped with maybe two dishes, enough to earn my ability to sit down. This is our monthly get-together: Val, Ari, and me. Three friends from college—two women I have a pretty good feeling I’ll know well into my 50s. But beyond that, this is the one night of the month I feel completely myself.
Tonight we have a special guest.
“My boyfriend is here,” Val murmured earlier in the car on our way back from the grocery store. They’d been doing somewhat long distance for a while, but he was in town and had been since the Friday before. Honestly, is it long distance if he’s in town every other week? This was actually a welcomed surprise—I liked her boyfriend. He was funny and felt familiar. An occasional addition. Sometimes girls' boyfriends can be so... I don’t know, tight in their skin around their partner’s friends, like they don’t know where to stand, what to say… not him, though. He was sure of himself. More than anything, though, I liked the way he treated Val. I liked how he had this devotion to her that he didn’t really have to vocalize. I liked the small things she’d share. Every so often, I’d see new boots that clung to her calves, courtesy of him. Or a tan from a trip she’d usually take solo, now incorporating the two of them.
And in that moment, in the middle of girls' night, I liked watching them underneath the single light that hung over the island in the kitchen. Splashes of orange, yellow, and green from the various dishes gleamed below them. The music from a playlist Ari created drifted in the background. They both looked at each other, rocking to the music. Light banter between them tied them like a spiderweb’s canvas. A moment—I don’t even know if Val noticed it herself, much less her boyfriend. But I did. They looked like the art that matched her walls. As I stole glances that manifested into a stare, I could feel the warm smile sweep across my face, and it reminded me how much I missed being a lover girl.
What is a lover girl, you might ask? Well, she’s not to be confused with a hopeless romantic. A hopeless romantic is different than a lover girl or lover boy (hello, inclusivity). The hopeless romantic sees forever in every person they’re with. They yearn for a beautiful, happy ending in every new beginning—the possibility in every kiss or hug.
A lover (gender neutral—it’s 2025 after all) is someone who sees beauty in experiences with others and knows not every relationship has to be romantic for it to equate to real love. That being said, I’ve met people who I’ve seen a future with, and others whom, in the back of my mind, I knew eventually I’d see for the last time—but I’d cherish our time together for as long as we got. Mostly though, I’ve met people who taught me that you can love someone so genuinely just because of who they are and the experiences they bring to your life. Not because they offer everlasting love.
I miss being a lover girl. I spent so much time healing—poking, prodding, and fixing to understand myself—that I forgot how much I appreciate love. Up until recently, I forgot that, even while standing in my 30s, wiser and a bit more cynical, I have always had this all-knowing that love is meant to be experienced in many different forms to prove its existence.
So, the question is, who is this new “healed” version of myself, and has my definition of a lover girl changed because of it?
Too much introspection isn’t always a good thing—it can be exhausting. If you spend so much time looking inward, you don’t notice what’s happening around you.I am currently watching Sex and the City (and as much as I’d love to consider myself a Carrie, I am barely writing, and I haven’t been hung up on the wrong guy since I was 24. If anything, I am a Charlotte). For those of you who don’t watch the show, it’s about four friends in their 30s who are navigating love and dating in New York. My favorite writer of all time, bell hooks, condemned the show due to the lewd and carnal behavior of the characters—both men and women. And from face value, it is about sex… I mean, the title alone. Yeah, there is a lot of sex, but underneath it all, it’s about love. And not even love so much with the men or women the friends are dating, but more so their love for each other—and their learned love for themselves.
When I thought of love, especially when I was younger, I only thought about romantic relationships. I was constantly searching for partnership without being well aware of how perfectly capable I am of having a beautiful life of my own… on my own.
It’s true: during my time single, dating was one of my most exciting pastimes—meeting someone new, the electricity in fresh eye contact. The first kiss, first touch… Finding out what someone does for a living, how much money they make, where their parents are from, when their last relationship was. A rush of information matched with the rush of possibility. And now that I am in a committed relationship with a man I am quite sure I have at least met in every lifetime—if that sort of thing really exists—I wondered: what happens when you reach the pinnacle of romance?
Does anyone think about the standouts as much as I do? The loves that played a part in the love I have now. I’m not just talking about romantic. The platonic. The friendships, the family, the self-devotion I had to grow in times where I lacked security elsewhere.
When I think about my boyfriend now, I know the obvious—it’s assumed we are permanent—but I don’t have a ring. And there are times I look at him, and I am reminded just how different we are in how we view the world, each other, and ourselves. I feel like I’ve reached a pinnacle as far as romantic love goes. At least as now, who knows what the future holds. Now that I’m here, I wish I knew—unlike Snow White or Sleeping Beauty—that kind of love isn’t enough. It isn’t everything, nor should it be. Had I known, I would have asked my sister a long time ago. My sister has been with the same person since she was 19—they’re pretty much a done deal. She got her forever so young. I would have asked her what happens next. (Or maybe even my mother, who was married for 25 years—her love story seemed complete before her frontal lobe had even developed.)
Once I got into this safe space, I thought about them. My sister—she’s one of the lucky ones. Never will she have to experience heartbreak or make really bad decisions. She gets the romance and the safety, and life pretty much is ordained for her. And she was much less of a hopeless romantic than I am.
But as time has gone by, and there’s been a period we’ve grown farther apart, I began to wonder: was I jealous of her love story, or her sense of security that she was able to obtain at a much earlier age than I? I did not consider the fact that romantic love is just one love story. There are many stories and experiences of love I have gotten that were just as impactful to my scientific makeup. And what about the love for myself? The times I came home drunk to my studio apartment, singing lyrics to a song I loved. Or took myself to lunch because, shit, I deserve it. Or took care of myself hungover (which, by the way, the only thing that screams love more than picking yourself up off the bathroom floor is probably choosing sobriety—I don’t love myself that much yet).
Maybe all these years, I’d had my being a hopeless romantic confused with searching for codependency. I never really had that growing up. I’m the oldest of three, my sisters are twins, my parents were together till they weren’t. Most times, I was just pushed to do things on my own—or first. I wondered if maybe this hopeless romantic was simply me trying to find a partner to do life with.
Being a lover girl is me realizing that there have been many love stories written for me along the way—they just didn’t look the way I expected. In hindsight, they were probably better. I looked at love as an endgame, and honestly, most people do. Prince Charming, happily ever after, the sanctity of marriage. But really, love is much bigger than that. It is bigger than two people. It is more diverse and unique. It’s more captivating and safe. Val and her boyfriend are bigger than any wedding photos they may take. They are more than the milestones we are supposed to hit. They are the subtle moments in the kitchen—the way he looks at her, and how used to it she is, that she doesn’t even notice. When I can catch love like that, I know I’ve seen something worthwhile.
Most of the forms of love that I have known have been just like that—quiet, yet genuine. My longest relationships have been with friends who kept my secrets, listened to me when I cried, laughed with me when that’s all we could do. Through dinners, long FaceTimes, and impromptu errands. Holding hands in bed with my best friend during a sleepover and taking my calendar out to excitedly write down next month’s plans.
Sometimes love has been just for me—sneaking a peek at myself in the mirror before I’m off for a night out and noticing how nice I look. And when it comes to romance, the boys that I loved the most made me laugh, they were dependable, and felt like I could recognize them in a crowd.
I am a lover girl because I know the impact love, in all its different forms, has had on my life. And I know it’s much deeper than the superficial, fear-based way we often see it. Love is just as transformative subtle as it is when it’s a dramatic gesture. Love is patient, and it’s kind, as the saying goes.
Lastly, though—love is for yourself too.
I love myself very much, and it’s taken a while to really get there. We aren’t taught how important that is. Ever since I was a kid, I loved outwardly—through words, hugs, actions, anything to prove to someone just how much I loved them. But as an adult, I am taking the time to show me how much I love me too. Writing again because I miss it. Therapy every week because I’m brave enough to face things I’ve hidden. A sweet treat at the bakery because I want it. Seeing people that love me because I need it.
So I guess it begs the question: have you acknowledged the love you witnessed today? A couple holding hands in a crowded street, a mother patiently listening to her baby speak on the train, a cousin that called to check in, your parent texting you because they thought about you, your friend wanting to grab dinner.
Have you seen love, and how did it make you feel? I hope it made you feel warm. I hope it made you smile. If it didn’t, I hope it made you wonder why.
I will always root for love. Even during times I feel lack, I think there’s just some glimmer of hope in this world that it brings. This warm reminder, when all else feels lost, that it is a constant—you just have to take a moment to notice.
The other day I sat in a small Japanese restaurant, a slice of salmon in between my lips as I leaned close in the booth I slouched in. My best friend Stephanie sat across the table telling me about her new boyfriend—how they made it official, what their plans were for the weekend. As I watched her move her hands and fiddle with her hair, her large smile peeking in and out between furrowed brows, I thought to myself: I don’t know whose love story I appreciated more in this moment—theirs or ours.