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You meet someone. You enjoy their company. They make you laugh. You find yourself thinking about them when they're not around. And somewhere along the way, you realize this person has become considerably more important to you than you ever intended. Wonderful, right? Then why the hell is it so terrifying? Because falling in love means giving someone the ability to hurt you. Not because they're going to. They might be the kindest, most wonderful person you've ever met. Which a

Somewhere along the way, human beings decided that falling in love should come with a lifetime guarantee. And we've romanticized the hell out of that idea. Books, movies, love songs, and fairy tales have been selling us the same story for generations. Two people meet, fall madly in love, overcome a few obstacles, and live happily ever after. Roll the credits. Nobody seems particularly interested in what happens 25 years after the credits roll. Now, before anyone gets the wron

Sometimes life just fucking beats us down. And there are times when it doesn't let up for months, or even years. Losses, pain, trauma, disappointments, loneliness, broken relationships, and the endless weight of responsibilities. Eventually, we can get so accustomed to just surviving that we forget what it feels like to actually enjoy being alive. And then something happens. An unexpected friendship. A first kiss. A long-overdue reunion. A child's laughter. A new opportunity.

There are people in relationships right now who know they aren't happy. They've known it for months. Maybe years. They don't necessarily dislike their partners. There may be no cheating, abuse, or terrible arguments. Sometimes the relationship just isn't what it used to be. But they stay. Maybe their partner is sick, financially dependent, emotionally struggling, or simply someone they can't imagine hurting. And that's where things get complicated. When does caring about some

Sometimes you meet someone and feel something shift. You may not know what to call it, or what to do with it. You just notice that you feel more alert. More curious. More alive. A regular day has a little more color in it, and you find yourself carrying that feeling with you. Maybe you even sing offtune aloud in your car. That can be confusing. Especially when the situation is complicated, or when some things might be better left unsaid. The feeling is still real, even if you

I got through my father’s birthday. September 3 came and went. Then September 14, the anniversary of his death. That came and went too. I was okay. I thought I was okay, anyway. I didn’t fall apart. I made it through those days. Then grief attacked me at four in the morning. I was working an overnight shift at the supported housing program, sitting there alone doing paperwork. Nothing dramatic was happening. It was an ordinary, quiet stretch of the night. And then, almost out

Over the last year, I’ve come to a painful realization: no one cares about my life quite the way I do. No one else feels my pain, carries my fears, or lives with my situation every hour of every day. That doesn’t mean people don’t care. People can love us, empathize, listen, and help. I’m grateful for that. Sometimes having someone beside us makes a difficult day bearable. But then the conversation ends. I get in my car alone, drive home to my apartment, and close the door be

Today marks one year since my father died. Yesterday, the Buffalo Bills started another season. For most of the last twenty years, I rarely missed a Bills game with my dad. That might sound like a small thing compared with everything a father and son share over a lifetime. But I am beginning to think the small things are exactly where death becomes the most real. You expect the big days to hurt. Birthdays. Holidays. Anniversaries. You don't necessarily expect a football game

Sometimes people aren’t single because they cannot find anyone. Sometimes life has required so much of them that tenderness had to wait. For the last few years, I was finishing my doctorate, struggling financially, and helping care for my parents. I watched my father decline and then lost him while dementia slowly took my mother's mind away. There were houses to sell, yards and bills to manage, and constant dealings with Medicaid and nursing homes. I simply kept handling what

“I need you.” We hear those words in love songs, movies, and wedding vows as if they represent the deepest form of love. Sometimes they do. But sometimes they mean something very different. I need you to make me feel okay. I need you to reassure me that I'm worthy. I need you to keep me from being alone. I need you to give my life meaning. And that's an enormous responsibility to hand another human being. There's nothing wrong with needing people. We're social creatures. We n

We talk a lot about wanting to be loved. We don't talk nearly as much about wanting to be desired. And maybe that's because admitting it can sound shallow. We're supposed to become more mature as we get older. Wiser. Less concerned with appearance. More interested in companionship, character, and emotional connection. And hopefully we do. But that doesn't necessarily mean we stop wanting someone to look at us and think: I want you. There is something deeply human about that f

I keep hearing the same thing from women. Not from surveys or social media debates, but from female friends and colleagues I've known over the last several years—women of different ages, backgrounds, and personalities. The details vary, but the frustration is remarkably similar. "The guys I meet are narcissistic." "Nobody puts in any effort." "Everything turns sexual immediately." "Chivalry is dead." Obviously, not all men are narcissists. And I'm not convinced men have sudde

There’s a particular kind of pain in falling in love with someone you can’t have. You never lost them. They were never yours to lose. And maybe that’s what makes it so difficult. They can still be right there. You can talk to them, laugh with them, look forward to seeing them, and feel better simply because they walked into the room. And sometimes it’s the smallest things that hurt the most. The smell of their hair when they’re standing close to you. Hearing their laugh from

When we're young, we don't have to work very hard to find other people. School surrounds us with friends. College gives us roommates. Workplaces become social circles. Marriage creates built-in companionship. Children fill the house with noise. Even running errands means constantly bumping into familiar faces. Life keeps putting people in front of us. Then, almost without noticing, it changes. The kids move away. Parents become elderly—or they're gone. Friends relocate, becom