14 years ago, I walked into a dorm room (which, in retrospect, was a room I felt way too familiar with for it not being my own) to see my ex-“situationship” in bed with another girl. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, and if anything, I felt like an absolute idiot. They didn’t see me, and I slowly retreated, my heart sinking further with each embarrassing, sad-girl moonwalk-like step backwards, closing the door on any potential I thought we might’ve still had.
It hurt way more than I was expecting, and I hated to admit that to myself. I hated to admit that he somewhat reminded me of my very first love. I hated to admit that I was afraid of never “finding” that again.
I had no idea what I was doing, but I continued on, scraping up bits of confidence where I could find it.
13 years ago, I found myself on a futon, lying next to someone I was fond of as an acquaintance, but had no interest in at all. Why?, you might ask. Very reasonable question. Well, I was in college, and I was cold, and I’m just a girl. He, reasonably, asked if I felt anything for him romantically. I hit him with an amicable but unmistakable “no.”
I had no idea what I was doing, but I did recall feeling at peace. Like I didn’t have to know what I was doing. That this person was allowing me the space to just be, without further explanation, without judgment, without shame. Noted.
12 years ago, I started falling for that same futon guy. Not out of guilt or pressure, and not due to his (nonexistent) pursuit or any type of stereotypical courtship. We had become friends. I had become interested in who he was. He began to fascinate me with his unique and unexpected mixture of qualities.
I had no idea what I was doing, but one evening, when he had people over for a late-night hangout, and everyone started to leave one by one, I lingered. I told the first and still the only lie of our soon-to-be relationship (not counting birthday-surprise-white-lies!) when I told him “I lost my shoe” while shifting my eyes away from that very shoe I had kicked under the futon to glance at him nervously.
He had no idea what I was doing… until he did (smart boy), then he offered to let me stay over.
The story continues with a lot of not knowing what we’re doing.
And I come to you today to admit that I still have little clue.
But I think admitting that is what makes it work.
I hate the word coach because, although I can provide guidance from my experience, knowledge, and research, I cannot and should not tell you or anyone what to do.
What I can tell you, however, is what I believe. And what I strongly believe is that love does not thrive on certainty. It thrives on curiosity.
And curiosity thrives on admitting that you, at every step of the way, have very little idea what’s going on.
You don’t know this person sitting across from you. Even after a year, two years, three…
You don’t know if you can trust them in the beginning, and you certainly don’t know if they will ever hurt you or not.
You don’t know if they’ll be “the one” or just “another one.”
At first, you may not even know whether what you’re feeling is love, lust, infatuation, obsession, or just indigestion.
That’s when you start getting curious. That’s when you start asking questions.
When I had no idea what I was doing after closing the literal and metaphorical door 14 years ago, I asked myself some reflective questions. Fortunately, understanding any bits of lessons that could be learned from how I felt was what helped me scrape up pieces of self-assurance along the way. Certainly not acting like I was better than him, that he missed out, that I know exactly why we couldn’t get past the situationship (which I didn’t even consider until I felt rejected – which created another point of thoughtful exploration). I admitted that there was so much I didn’t know and would likely never know about the situation, which enabled me to focus on the questions I could answer – for myself:
When I had no idea what I was doing, lying on a futon next to that acquaintance, in a gray-toned bubble of awkward yet comfortable bliss, I (for once in my overthinking life) stopped trying to understand that specific situation. I didn’t want to make sense of it; I just wanted to be. But what I did eventually do was ask myself questions I could answer:
Answering these questions wasn’t forced or immediate, but I now know how much it softened me towards a friendship with futon guy (aka my now husband) in the first place.
When I had no idea what I was doing, pacing back and forth, slowly enough not to slip on the nervous sweat that I feared was dripping from my forehead, I let myself stay. I let my vulnerability win. More than the sweat drops, I feared rejection; I feared payback for however I made the futon guy feel when I had given him a hard “no,” but I didn’t let that fear win. I had no idea what I was doing, I had no idea where that lingering would take me, would take us, and I was so prepared to shut another door if need be. But I was curious:
That ‘What if?’, that curiosity, has carried us through in our partnership:
And this ‘What if?’ is what I see so very little of in dating these days.
The apps provide the illusion that you know people enough to judge them before you know anything real at all. Social media makes you feel like everyone always has everything figured out and knows exactly what they want and need at all times, so you should, too. Constant comparison and evaluation (and even too much self-help reflection) can make us constantly question ourselves, but not in the productive, exploratory, non-judgmental ways, but rather in the overly-critical, “I can’t believe I haven’t figured this out yet!” way – and people’s (especially women’s) love lives seem to receive the greatest punches.
I’ve been in a relationship for almost 12 years, married for 6. I have a lovely home and make enough to live comfortably in that home. I have (probably too many) passions and great friendships. And I still, in the grand scheme of things and possibilities, have no idea what I’m doing. You probably don’t either. That’s life. And that’s okay. Even better: that’s the fun of it.
When you admit you have no idea what the heck is going on, you give yourself space to breathe, to explore, to rethink, to reconnect. To not follow strict rules or hyper-specific guidelines. To form your own pathway based on what feels right over what looks “right.”
And even though I’ve been with my partner for what seems like forever, I know this mindset works in early dating, too. I’ve tried it for myself (that’s a conversation for another day), but also I’ve spent so much time researching what really works for dating and relationships – honesty, vulnerability, sharing, listening, thoughtful question-asking – not heavy bullet-point lists, not preconceived notions, not high expectations masking shallow judgements, and certainly not a sense of knowing it all. I’ve taken that experience and research and helped others develop this mindset as well, leading to exceptional changes not only in the outcomes of their dating lives but, arguably more importantly, in how they feel about themselves.
So, I won’t give you instructions, but I will give you permission.
Here’s permission to not know. Here’s permission to be excited about the exploration of yourself and others once again. Here’s permission to ask questions to truly get to know others, for romantic love or simply a brief but impactful connection. Permission to see dating not as a chore, but as a privilege, and an opportunity to share who you are with someone if they’re willing to listen.
But you don’t need my permission, anyway. And you certainly don’t have to listen to me. I mean, it’s not like I have any idea what I’m doing.
Love,
Imani
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