20/09/2025 - To meet someone and fall in love.

You’d think I’d feel amazing after a full day of rest, but I don’t. I actually feel low, mentally, and emotionally. My body feels great though, no pain anywhere, which proves it needed the break. But my heart aches. Today it’s been crowded with love, with past partners, with fleeting interests, with stories that never unfolded, and never will. Not one person in particular, but the question itself: why has none of the men I connected with in the past two years felt reciprocity?

I understand rejection was part of my journey, necessary even. To face rejection meant facing the parts of me that still whispered unworthy, unlovable, uninteresting. Conceptually I get it. But to really feel it? That’s harder. Because I do find myself worthy. Lovable. Interesting. I truly believe I’m an incredible woman, the kind a man would be proud to be with. And yet, reality hasn’t mirrored that belief back in a long time. It shakes my conviction sometimes.

I know if I had stayed on the path of becoming men’s fantasy; fake boobs, perfect appearance, mystery, games of chasing and running... I would have more attention, more validation. But I chose authenticity instead. I chose to show who I am rather than perform what’s considered appealing. And I’ll hold this choice with my life. I’d rather be loved by one man who sees me for exactly who I am, than be liked by them all.

There was a time I wanted to become fantasy. I believed the more men desired me, the more I was worth. Quantity equaled truth. Until it cost me myself. I exhausted myself trying to please, chasing the high of attention that vanished as quickly as it arrived. I curated photos, danced for the gaze, chased glances in crowded rooms. And I became good at it; an artist of allure, almost a geisha. Revealing just enough, moving a certain way, speaking with my eyes. I could catch them, but harder to keep them. Because the moment they realized I was more than the fantasy, more intense, more real. I lost my appeal. I was too much to deal with.

So I decided it wasn’t worth it. Better to show myself fully from the start, even if it meant rejection. I believed authenticity carried a different light, one people might not understand but could feel. I do see that men are naturally attracted to me. Even without the artifices, my charm is natural. But when it comes to going deeper, beyond the surface, it fades.

With most of them, I wasn’t chasing a love story, not searching for “the one.” I was simply curious to explore a potential I sensed, to see if something genuine might unfold. But more often than not, it felt one-sided, as if they never felt it too. And that humbled me. I kept asking myself why. Why not just embrace the moment, dive in, and see what might be discovered between us? Instead, I was met with silence, with the inability to communicate openly. They’d rather disappear, ghost, leave me tangled in unanswered questions than risk an honest conversation. And that’s something I’ll never understand. For me, honesty will always be the choice, even when it cuts. Because pain passes, but doubts remain. And I am not cruel.

Therefore, I let it go completely. I told myself love will arrive when it arrives. And I still believe that, but it comes with loneliness. In ten months, I’ve only truly connected once, in the south of Spain, this summer. Which means I’ve only made love once too. And in October it will be seven years of being single. I’ve had romances of course, one beautiful in Australia, but nothing concrete, nothing committed.

And yet I crave it more than anything. To meet someone and fall in love. Oh, être amoureuse... But I can’t force it, can’t settle either. I can’t trick myself into feeling love because someone shows interest. I have to trust that by being myself, I’ll be recognized by the one who will love me as I am. It feels desperate to admit this, cringey even. But it’s also real. Because part of me loves being single; free, able to do whatever I want, whenever I want, be entirely mine. I’m grateful my twenties were for discovering myself. But I also have to honor the part of me that longs to have met him already.

Still, I won’t start seeking. I won’t change my path to chase love. I don’t need a man to feel whole, I already feel great in myself. But I do desire love, in the same way I desire to create the life I dream of. Just as I put effort into learning the skills that will bring me the work I want, or training my body so I can feel strong and beautiful within it, I want to embody the qualities that will be recognized by my future partner. Commitment, the word that once frightened me, no longer feels like a cage, it feels like a doorway. And I know I’ll be ready when he arrives. Maybe that’s why I feel so triggered now, because for the first time I feel fully ripe, fully open to receive. And yes, impatient.

I’m impatient to discover every corner of someone’s being; the parts he’s proud of and the ones he hides in shame. To trace every inch of his body, finding my favorite parcels of skin. To build a shared vision, support each other’s joy. To embrace our differences, not seeking to fix but to accept. To make love for hours, and breathe the same breath. To miss each other on our separate quests, then return and choose one another again and again.

Yes, I’m a romantic. But not the naïve kind. The kind that believes this love exists, and that I will live it. People tell me it’s impossible, that I’d get bored, that it doesn’t happen anymore. I don’t mind hearing it, it's ok if we don't share the same belief. But I do believe. And instead of fighting it, I’m simply becoming the woman who can be seen by a man who believes the same.

À bientôt mon amour, j'ai hâte de te retrouver.

With love, Loune