I spent most of my adolescence and early adulthood as a hopeless romantic.
I wandered the halls of my high school and my college campus aimlessly, in search of a girl I thought would love me into completion. No such girl ever came my way.
Every relationship I had buckled under the weight of my expectation. Most ended in chaos and calamity. And I always walked away thinking, “The next one will be better.”
I had magic feather syndrome—the same ailment that plagues Dumbo, convinced his capacity for flight is wholly dependent upon the feather he keeps in his trunk.
I’d convinced myself I needed someone to love me before I could be complete. It’s only within the last few years I’ve shifted this pattern of thinking. You have must love yourself into completion.
And let me tell ya, loving yourself is way better than waiting around for someone to do it for you.