Healing Is the Most Romantic Thing I’ve Ever Done for Myself

I used to think love meant finding the right person. Now I know it starts with a therapist, a willingness to unlearn everything I thought I knew about romance, and, of course, healing myself.

For most of my twenties, I thought romance was something that happened between two people — candlelit dinners, soft touches, the thrill of “what are we?” texts. But lately, I’ve realized the most romantic thing I’ve ever done didn’t involve anyone else. It involved me, my therapist, and a whole lot of unlearning.

For the first time in my life, I am really taking time focusing on healing myself.

When I used to date, I mistook chaos for passion. I thought overanalyzing texts meant I cared, and feeling anxious meant I was really into someone. It was easier to tell myself the butterflies were romantic when it was actually my nervous system screaming, “Danger!”

Every relationship became a test of my worth, my desirability, and my ability to be chosen. It has taken me 25 years and seven months of therapy to realize that shouldn’t be the case. How can I be relying on men to feel good about myself? With this recent realization, I knew I was in need of a change.

I also started to notice that when I got my hopes up to be the chosen one and was let down, it would send me into a spiral. Soon, I started asking myself, “Can a man really send you to the mental hospital?” Now, a psychiatrist and a good therapist are on speed dial. This was something I had been meaning to do for years but always put off.

I thought it would just help me manage stress or stop overthinking. But what it really did was hand me a mirror.

Realities of Therapy and Healing

Suddenly, I was face-to-face with the parts of myself I’d been outsourcing to other people — validation, comfort, and security. The work isn’t glamorous. There are no grand epiphanies, no montage moments where everything clicked.

It’s me crying in my bed after a session because my therapist asked one too many good questions, or learning to self-soothe instead of sending that panicked “Hey” text when I get anxious about being left on read for days. It’s doing an art project instead of doom-scrolling when my anxiety told me I’d “messed everything up.”

Right now, I’m still in the early stages. Therapy feels less like a breakthrough and more like learning a new language — one where I actually have to name what I feel instead of running from it.

I wouldn’t say I’ve seen huge changes yet, but I am starting to notice small things, like how often I downplay what I need, how quickly I assume something’s my fault, and how uncomfortable it feels to just sit with my emotions instead of trying to fix them.

It’s humbling, honestly. Some days I leave therapy feeling lighter, like I’ve finally untangled a knot in my brain. Other days, I leave wondering if I’ll ever stop overthinking everything.

Even on the tough days, just showing up feels like progress. I’m slowly becoming the version of myself who can love better, both me and whoever comes next. So, yes, getting my mental health in check might not sound as thrilling as a whirlwind romance.

But for me, it’s been the most romantic thing I’ve ever done. Because this time, I’m not waiting for someone to choose me. I’m choosing myself first, just like I have always deserved.

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