Why Love Still Feels Unfinished?

 After writing the previous chapter, I realized that love is the one place where my growth still feels unfinished. I’ve learned to stand on my own, to rebuild my work, my values, my sense of self. I’ve learned to be patient with solitude and disciplined with my fears. But love doesn’t respond to effort the way other parts of life do. It resists structure. It exposes what remains tender. And maybe that’s not a failure, but an invitation—to look more closely at how I connect, what I protect, and what I’m still afraid to ask for.

I don't understand why it has been so difficult—almost impossible—for me to find what they call love. At forty, I found myself feeling like I’m not enough for someone, like my way of loving is wrong, like I’ve failed in my past relationships. There haven’t been many, but I’ve learned from each of them. Still, there’s an emptiness they’ve left behind, and at times I truly believe I was born to be alone. I’ve talked about this often with my therapist. He tells me there’s nothing wrong with me, that my way of loving is genuine and spontaneous, and that I shouldn’t feel broken for loving the way I do.

And yet, it’s difficult to understand that when I look around and see my friends, my family, even people I’m not very close to, finding that person who complements them. They build lives together. They create families. Likewise, they move through the good and the bad side by side. I don’t know about you, but finding myself alone at this age—without someone to share my good days with, my bad days at work, or a quiet conversation on a Sunday morning—has become one of my biggest worries. I know the world isn’t perfect, but the question still comes back to me: what’s wrong with me?

Every so often I wonder if my way of loving is too intense. If I worry too much about the other person and forget to give myself the place and importance I deserve. Do I ask for too much? Am I too immature for love, or do I simply not know how to love? The questions pile up, and the answers never seem clear. I know love is supposed to be a two-way street. I know we have to love ourselves before we can truly love someone else. I know being a couple is never fifty–fifty all the time. Not only that, but I’ve failed, I’ve learned, and still I end up in the same place—alone. I can’t seem to complete the cycle and say, “Damn, I did it. I’m with her. She makes me feel good. We’re building something.” Something as simple as dinners on any given day, church on Sundays, laughter, shared silence—everything that comes with being a couple.

I’m the kind of person who sends a good-morning text, who wishes you a good day. I ask how your morning is going, how work went, and whether you’ve already had dinner. If you share something with me, I assume it’s because there’s trust, and I remember it. I ask about it later. I don’t always know where care ends and intrusion begins. What I do know is that this way of loving has often been labeled as too much, too persistent. Over time, that judgment seeps in. It affects my self-confidence. It makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong simply by being who I am.

As I get closer to forty-two, the last thing I want is to keep carrying so many fears. I would rather not keep shrinking my heart to fit someone else’s comfort. I want to love and be loved—for the good and the bad, for my flaws and my qualities, for my presence, not despite it. Maybe this chapter isn’t about finding answers. Perhaps it’s about allowing myself to believe that my way of loving is not a mistake, but a language. And maybe the courage I’m learning now isn’t about finding the right person—it’s about finally making peace with myself while I wait.