The Relationship I Was Missing Was My Own

This piece was written by one of our dear readers—a woman with something real to say. Each month, we handpick the best submissions for Dear Reader because we’re after that PROVOKED bite: truth, intelligence, and heart. These stories come from women our age—women who’ve lived enough to know better and still care enough to tell it anyway. Because being seen and heard matters. Because storytelling is how we stitch ourselves to one another. And because when one woman speaks her truth, another finally recognizes her own. — Susan Dabbar, Editor-in-Chief

After divorce, dating apps, and a parade of almosts, one woman discovered the most satisfying relationship was the one she’d been avoiding—with herself.

When I divorced at 48 and moved back to my hometown of New York City, I was excited. I’d never been single as an adult. But after a few weeks of freedom, my pre-wiring for partnership took over. I don’t need to be single, I reasoned. I need to find the right doubles partner. So, I began dating.

Determined, I turned to Hinge. I treated it like a job hunt and the dates like interviews. Knowing I’d need to kiss frogs before I found my prince, I dated a lot, keeping an open heart. He was out there—or was he? 

Approximately 100,000 swipes later, I would be finding out.

The Guy Who Wasn’t My Ex-Husband

My ex was money-motivated, rarely drank, and shied away from domestic duties. My first post-divorce manfriend was a struggling filmmaker and functional alcoholic who did housework. Who knew that letting me buy dinner, being drunk by 5 p.m., and cleaning a toilet could be turn-ons? 

Still, by falling for the antithesis of a man I’d crossed many state lines to separate from, I’d allowed my ex to retain power over me. This new chapter was supposed to be about finding myself, not escaping my ex. I then vowed to figure out what qualities I truly wanted in a partner, not just which ones I didn’t. 

The Guy Who Reeked 

My next prospect was Jewish, funny, and had a teen daughter. Same as me. Bonus points for his addiction to The New York Times Spelling Bee. My perfect match? Well, there was just one problem: He smelled. Like mothballs. Google offered explanations including sinus issues, liver problems, and gum disease. This did not make me feel better.

Apparently, something was “off” about me too. “We should slow things down,” he said after several weeks of dating, surprising the heck out of me. I suggested that ending things would probably be easier. It was. 

I’d left a stressful marriage to stop suffering. Yet because I feared confrontation, I’d chosen suffering once again. I added “must smell good” to my Hinge wishlist, and promised that I’d henceforth put my own happiness before others’ potential hurt feelings.

The Guy Who Just Couldn’t Say “Yes”

I recognized him from his profile picture. We’d been neighbors as teenagers, and he’d had a crush on me. “This was his wet dream,” a friend joked. It turns out he liked me even more than he had 30 years ago. But this time, his feelings were returned. 

He was funny and sweet and the romance felt comfortable and nostalgic. He’d never had a serious relationship before. Sure, this was textbook red flag stuff, but it made sense. It was hard for him to really be himself around others, he said. Until me. I was special. But after his third panic attack in three months, I asked him, again, if he was really up for this. I’m not sure why it surprised me when he ultimately admitted he wasn’t the relationship type.

After this one, I had a hard conversation with myself: “You’re amazing, Amanda. But nobody’s amazing enough to change a person.” 

The Guy Who Just Couldn’t Say “No”

I didn’t attempt to change this next one. He was super laid back and up for anything. “Hell, yeah,” he’d say to my suggestions of plays and museums and dinners with my friends. Charmed by his agreeability, I accepted his excessive marijuana use, messy apartment, and inability to plan. Live and let live! But after months of him tagging along on my life, he hit a wall, stating he couldn’t “do this anymore.” This one was easy to get over. The whole relationship had been choreographed by me. 

I’d been dating myself. 

What a Girl Wants

The “self-dating” experience inspired serious soul-searching. Why was I looking for a partner? Was it just because I was used to having one? For over two years, I’d been trying to fill what I thought was a hole, but maybe it wasn’t a hole after all. 

Maybe the partnership that was missing was the one with myself. Maybe that was the relationship I needed to take to the next level.

And why all the settling for less, considering I was finally autonomous? The truth was, I’d believed that no man could be simultaneously kind, funny, smart, honest, financially and mentally stable, reasonably attractive, and good-smelling. 

Sure, I was all of those things. But I’m used to being overqualified for jobs.

I’d spent my married life convincing myself I wouldn’t find a better partner than my ex. Wasn’t the point of divorce to finally do better? We only receive as good as we ask for. It’s time to stop asking for less.

And what if I stop settling for less and, instead of getting more, get nothing? What’s left? My loving family, full social life, good job, wonderful daughter, and unusually cuddly cat? This is more than most dare to dream of. 

Do I need to want more?

The Power of Contentment

Although an understandable goal is to be in a healthy, loving relationship, there’s no research that proves that those in such relationships are happier than singles. So last month, I deleted Hinge. It just felt like it was time. 

But before I did, I took one last look. In the “liked you” category was a man lying in a hospital bed. “I’m broken. Somebody fix me.” I’m not sure if it was a joke or he was just being brutally honest, but I’m done with fixer-uppers. 

One day, I may find a turnkey partner who makes me smile even more than I do now, which, I’m happy to report, is a lot. But ever since I took companionship off of my list of needs, I’ve been surprisingly content with not knowing if it will ever happen.

Every night after work, as I walk up the subway steps onto the sidewalk above, I get a rush of excitement. I don’t know what the evening will bring—who I’ll talk to, what emotions will surface, what I’ll eat, whether I’ll leave my apartment again or not. 

The only certainty is that I’ll be exactly where I should be, with exactly who I should be with. If I’m one day meant to be somewhere else—or with someone else—so be it. But there’s no rush. “The night is young,” is my mantra. And as I walk the two blocks to my apartment, the streets still bustling, the city lights twinkling with possibilities, I do know this: No app in existence could introduce me to anyone or anything that feels as right as these moments do.