How To Fall in Love

I met a guy in person that I’d matched with on a dating app just a few days prior. We knew little about one another aside from the information displayed on our profiles, as he wasn’t adept at text message conversations. After only a few pleasantries, he said, “look, I’d really like to get to know you,” and asked if he could call me. The call led to us meeting at a nearby lounge.

There wasn’t anything modelesque about this guy’s appearance. He was wearing a beige sweater with jeans and a pair of black work boots. His hair was long and twisted into locs at the top but shaved on the sides, like Killmonger from the Black Panther movie. You might say he was ruggedly handsome at about six feet tall and of average build. Though to me, he loomed larger.

Everything seemed more familiar and perfect than was rational. I was attracted to him in ways I’d never been to anyone. Not even those with whom I’d had serious relationships. By the end of the night, I was certain that I loved him.

I surrendered logic to serendipitous conviction. This had never happened. I wished it’d happened sooner. I wished I’d known the freedom and the joy and the weightlessness of effortless adoration.

Is it the being loved or the loving that our hearts crave?

My thoughts revolved around this question while driving home from the lounge. Because I realized that I didn’t care much whether my date shared my sentiments in that moment. The experience alone sufficed.

I never believed in fairytales. Perhaps that’s why fairytales never found me. Love at first sight, or even second or third sight, was to me a ridiculous and irresponsible notion best suited for soap operas and romance novels. Yet here I was smitten beyond reason.

The guy hadn’t done anything special to evoke such a response or foster some profound connection. We had an engaging conversation where I learned his values and perspective on life seemed compatible with mine. He was cordial and respectful but did nothing unusual to sweep me off my feet.

There were no grand gestures. No flowers or teddy bears awaited my arrival. My date didn’t shower me with over-the-top sweetness or tap into a hidden corner of my soul with provocative inquiries. Everything about our encounter was rather ordinary — except the way that it moved me.

He and I continued getting to know one another, but things didn’t take a sudden serious turn. My overwhelming emotions didn’t reign absolute dominion over my approach. I understood, even in my state of bliss, that I didn’t know this man.

About a month later, I went on another date with a different guy. He was cute and artsy and thoughtful. The same strong affinity didn’t overtake me as with the other guy, but about halfway through our in-person meeting, my gaze settled on his smile. I knew that if I wanted, I could love him too.

Again, nothing was mesmerizing about this guy or our time together. Twice in one month though, I felt a way I never had on countless dates before. To someone for whom love always seemed heavy and cumbersome, suddenly it was light.

How was this happening?

That’s the question. The thing about tasting ecstasy is that we want to recreate the experience as often as possible. If my current state wasn’t this guy or the other guy’s doing, I thought, it must’ve been me.

I went into both first dates with no inhibitions. I left my practical, process-oriented self behind. As doing so for so long had become tiresome, I aimed to wield no authority over the interactions.

I didn’t even ask my typical assessment questions, such as “how long has it been since your last relationship?” or “do you want kids?” I maintained the belief that those discussions are necessary when considering long-term partner potential. But I allowed it to not matter right then, in the pocket of appreciating someone for the first time. I let it be OK to enjoy the magic of new beginnings, instead of interrupting it by foreshadowing what’s to come.

“Allowed” is the word that kept resurfacing in my mind. I felt like I could love these guys because I let myself feel that way. I was open to the idea. I was more invested in loving them than finding reasons not to.

That’s usually what we do in dating.

We look for the reasons not to like someone or why it won’t work. We hang on the words that rub us the wrong way and hold on to the areas where they don’t measure up to our predetermined criteria.

We focus on people’s most problematic characteristics instead of those most promising. Their limitations instead of their strengths are amplified. Our approach to finding our person is often a process of elimination — developing rationale to rule people out of the running. Then we wait to see who’s left standing, which is likely no one.

When I began to take the opposite approach in dating, when I came into the situation open and observant instead of hesitant and probing, I got different results. I listened and focused on what I liked about people. In turn, they showed me things I may not have otherwise seen. Things that roused in me feelings I’m sure would’ve otherwise remained dormant.

Falling in love is one thing, staying that way is another.

The instance is rare when we can know early on if we love someone with sustainable reverence, but you have to start down the path to take it further. I didn’t get there with every person I dated after my revelation. Still, the odds tilted in my favor. There was an opportunity for it to happen every time.

Then I realized, I could do that with anyone. You can do that with anyone. You can embrace what you find appealing about them and let that carry you.

Try as we might to look for the positives in people, sometimes it’s outweighed by the negative. Some relationships just stop working or never start. But others, we never give the chance.

You deserve to have what you want in a partner and can’t force a connection that doesn’t exist. This isn’t a case in favor of ignoring red flags and diminishing your needs. It’s not in defense of naivete, only in support of releasing resistance.

There may not be a secret formula to stir butterflies and ignite romantic passion, but I’ve learned there’s a recipe for love — and the first ingredient is choosing it.

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This post was previously published on Medium.

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