On love

part 1 of 2

I’ve been thinking about romantic love lately. How much I want it. And how long I’ve been calling it into my life. A mentor of mine set me homework to write a newsletter of this ilk in January 2021. She told me it would be a powerful announcement to myself and the universe that I wanted a relationship. I’ve been too scared, and now it’s December 2022. I’ve been stuck in freeze response, unable to express this part of myself. It’s private. And for some reason, it felt embarrassing (and let’s be honest, it is a bit cringe) — but more than that, and something I return to again and again, is that to claim love for oneself is embarrassing. This is not true. It’s something particular to me and something I’ve worked with in therapy to attempt to undo. Even as I type these words, there’s a frog in my throat — I don’t know how I will explain myself here. But so it is, and here we go — and…

It’s always been easy for me to slip into friendship love. It has been and continues to be one of the great joys of my life. There is nothing better than meeting a new friend, realising how much you have in common or how instant the connection is and following that thread. Seeing what becomes of it. There are friends with whom I could talk for hours on end, with palpable excitement that we get to exist in each other’s orbit. There are friends with whom I can be silent. There are friends with whom I can share my deepest darkest secrets, and they won’t judge me (or if they do, they don’t tell me, which is just as generous). Friends who cook with and for me. Friends who welcome me into their families. Friends who teach me what friendship can look like, who practice reciprocity. Friendship is a reason for living.

But romantic love? It’s been elusive my whole life. I’ve been somewhat of an alien in this regard. I have well-meaning friends who ask, “So, are you on the apps?” Which, to me, seems like an inane question. Of course I’m on the fucking apps. I’m a single woman in my 30s. Do I use the apps would be the better question. And the answer is: sporadically and with reluctance. Others, who haven’t seen me for a while, ask trepidatiously and with a slight bit of sympathy in their voice: “Seeing anyone?” I’ve never been in a long-term relationship, so maybe they feel bad for me. I’ve even had people suggest that I try looking for other people who have been sick, as if a lack of shared trauma is the thing holding me back — am I damaged goods? The same mentor who encouraged me to write this newsletter reminded me repeatedly that I have been in relationships, I’ve been in lots of them (see above for all those friends).

So it’s not that I’m not good at relationships. It’s just that a big reciprocal love relationship hasn’t happened for me yet, and even though society tells me that I’m done for, everyone is already partnered, and if I were to get pregnant now, it would be geriatric and time to freeze your eggs, it’s $15,000 but worth it and just wait for all the divorces and —

The more I think those thoughts, the less I can expect love. The love I have within me and around me is indestructible. I feel it more and more. In the ways I care for myself and others, the food I make, the voice I use, the words I write and the teaching I do. It’s indestructible.

On Monday evening, I walked through my new neighbourhood in Brooklyn with a fair amount of pep in my step. I thought about love. How do you talk about a loss that doesn’t exist? How does it feel to imagine something you’ve never had? How do you describe a grief that doesn’t feel viable, doesn’t get talked about and isn’t socially acceptable? How do you believe in love now, still? You just do. And art is there when you need it. I put on a playlist I had made for my friend Sue’s wedding in 2019. She put me in charge of the music, so I made six separate playlists, as you do, and the songs on there always deliver when I can’t think of what to listen to.

Just Friends by Musiq Soulchild came on shuffle, and I was thrown into a memory of my first boyfriend—straight to the heart. He was a tall, lanky kid two years older than me who asked me to meet him after study hours one night at our boarding school. We had a break from 930-10 pm when we were allowed to wander around and get up to no good. This was, of course, an opportunity for the kids to meet and make out and for others to smoke weed in the woods. So that’s what we did. I couldn’t believe that a boy liked me, and it freaked me out. I had come from an all-girls school, and I was not used to interacting with boys. I listened to Just Friends over those weeks on repeat whilst playing snood on my computer when I should have been doing homework, thinking about this boy — giddy with excitement. He was so sweet, and our relationship lasted a total of three weeks because I ran away. No, actually — I ran away from him in the dining hall at one point when he came over to say hi. He was so normal and chill, and I was a complete freak and couldn’t take the attention. Love was embarrassing. I was 15.

15 years old, with hot wax on my brows every two weeks

The rest of my teens included a lot of kissing strangers much older than me in nightclubs and no serious relationships. My friends and I would see how many people we could pull on a night out. I had so many vodka tonic-soaked snogs I’ve lost count. My 20s included energy placed on people who didn’t love me back or couldn’t bring themselves to be in a relationship with me. A lot of unrequited love, a lot of rejection, a lot of heartache. There were also many really sweet people who attempted to date me, fully available, who I shut down because, embarrassing. Intimacy? No, thank you. I prefer a codependent ideal of an imaginary relationship with unavailable people. Much safer! I came to the (incorrect) conclusion in my late 20s that I was unloveable and should stop trying.

17, trouble, pulling strangers for a living

Then (if you’re a long-time reader of this newsletter) — we know what happened. I had my liver cut out of my body and a new one put in, and love, sex, and relationships were completely off the table for a long time. My ribs were cracked, my body black and blue, and my heart cut off from my sexuality with a thick incision from my sternum to my belly button.

Through the process of my illness, I had to find skills to love myself because otherwise, I would simply not have survived it. There’s this idea floating around in the culture that goes a little like this:

“BABES! You have to love yourself before you can love another person! Self LOVE!”

I don’t know who came up with it (or why they’re shouting it at us), but I call bullshit. It must be part of a conspiracy to keep people single forever because I can’t think of anyone who doesn’t struggle with some version of fully loving themselves. And for my part, I have always done a good job loving other people wholeheartedly and with abandon (with an ongoing attempt to undo codependent tendencies) despite any self-loathing in my DNA. I still have a lot of love to give. Self-love is a lifelong process for many, and I don’t think not having it diminishes your capacity to love others. If that’s the goal, I don’t know if we will ever get there.

What’s more important (and valuable) is if we keep trying to love ourselves. In turn, we can keep showing up in our relationships. We can repair ruptures when they happen. We can be a mirror for someone else who can’t access love for themselves in a given moment, and we can show them how worthy they are. I don’t want to show up for a relationship perfect and shiny, I want to show up human.

So yes, I’m thinking about love. Part two next week.

Nora xx

PS My podcast So, Life Wants You Dead comes out this Tuesday, December 6, in collaboration with Soho House! I won a competition in 2021 called Soho Chance, and they’ve helped me get this project off the ground. I would be so grateful if you would share and shout about it (and listen). You can find us here for updates and read about it here.

PPS It’s giving season! Consider gifting a subscription to a loved one: