Since appearing on the Modern Love podcast, I’ve heard from so many people sharing their own stories of depression, loving someone who struggles with mental health challenges, and the role luck and timing plays in love. With permission, I’m sharing a recent question from a reader, along with my answer.

Hi Stefanie.

My name is Libby (as you can tell by the form, but I think it’s important to introduce yourself off the bat so hi), and I listened to your story with the Modern Love podcast this morning. I recall reading your published story earlier this year, and I really enjoyed listening to the episode and hearing your voice animate the reality. I was wondering how it felt after you gave Jonathan your number and then heard nothing for 15 months? Did you think about him, did you know he would eventually reach out, did you think he would never reach out, did you try to date other people in the meantime, something else? I was just curious because 15 months can feel like a long time for someone to be on your mind. I have a similar occurrence in my own life, and similarly am afflicted with the self-story of not yet being anyone’s romantic #1 choice (whether it be for circumstance, mutual interest, emotional availability, geography, etc) it’s been hard. And I went out on a limb, recently, and had a great date but she’s recovering from a break up, so it’s not going anywhere soon. I’m trying to not wrap myself around the hope that one day she’ll call me up again, but when you’re struck you’re struck. All this to say, that part of your story struck a chord in me, and I was curious what, if anything, you felt in the time between meeting Jonathan and reconnecting with him. Thanks for considering.

Cheers,
Libby

Hi Libby,

Here’s the truth about those 15 months.

I wouldn’t have been ready to love Jonathan, or to let him love me, if I hadn’t had that time. I’d known my first husband since I was fifteen. When he left, it was the first time in my life I had ever dated without a curfew. I was a grown woman who still felt like a teenager in too many ways.

I made dumb mistakes. Some of them were dangerous. I got my heart broken and broke my own heart, more than once. I went to therapy. (I think I might have been the first person in my family to go to therapy. But I certainly wasn’t the first person in my family who should have gone to therapy.) I had a fat, sweet cat who kept me company and kept me alive on some of the harder nights, because who would take care of him if I wasn’t there?

I read dozens of novels, mostly by women, which turned out to be a revelation I hadn’t known I needed. I slept and woke and ate on my own schedule. My apartment had a little patio — most certainly illegal and definitely unsafe, which made me love it all the more — and I would sit outside for hours, reading and drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes (in my defense, it was still basically the 90s).

I walked. A lot. Sometimes, very early in the morning, and sometimes I would stop at the side door of a bakery near my apartment called Mazzola, and they would sell me a fresh, hot bread, and I would carry it home in my arms. I’d make coffee, and eat that bread with cold butter, and watch the sun rise. 

I wasn’t waiting for Jonathan during those 15 months. I wasn’t waiting at all. I had been waiting, it turns out, for myself. I had been waiting for me to show up my entire life. And there I was.

So here’s what I’d offer you, for whatever it’s worth.

The woman you went out with is recovering from something that has nothing to do with you. And the fact that you went out on a limb, that you let yourself be struck, that you’re sitting with the uncertainty honestly instead of pretending it doesn’t sting? That’s what makes you someone worth calling.

And maybe she will call, eventually. Or maybe it was just one great date.

Either way, don’t wait to see what happens. You say you haven’t yet been chosen as anyone’s romantic number one. I won’t diminish the sadness of that feeling. But I will tell you that, during those 15 months, when I was walking, and testing the edges of safety with men I didn’t know very well, and going to the movies every week, and buying whatever book I wanted and staying up all night to read it—I ended up choosing myself. By accident, at first. And then more intentionally. And finally, with tenderness, and deep affection.

Go find your illegal patio. Your sunrise walk. Your hot bread carried home in your arms. Don’t wait to be chosen. Choose. Choose what brings you joy, and comfort, and excitement. Choose what challenges you. Choose what makes you laugh. Choose to listen to the song that always makes you cry. I can’t promise any of this will bring that woman back to you, or any romantic partner. But I do know that waiting to see what happens in your own life is a lonely enterprise. So choose, instead.

Wishing you fair winds and following seas.

Stefanie

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