How acceptance loosened the grip of longing

For a long time, I believed the ache meant something, that longing was proof of love. That if I wanted something badly enough, if I twisted myself into a pretzel, I could have it.

I didn’t question that belief for a long time. I let it shape my choices, my moods, my sense of self.

As I took a good, hard look at myself, I began to understand that while each unfolding moment presents an opportunity to change the future, there are also limits to what I can influence.

Some things are clearly within my control: whether I eat the cookie, take the stairs, or doom-scroll the next two hours of my life away the moment I wake up.

And then there are the others — the ones that feel like a grey area at first glance.

That specific person who will make me whole.
The job I tell myself will make the work worth it.
The home that will say I’ve arrived.

These are the moments where I think wanting something badly gives me control.

It doesn’t.

And that’s where I’m invited to let go — to accept what I cannot change, like the Serenity Prayer so beautifully says.

As we approach the new year, I’ve begun looking more closely at the things that steal my joy and create stress — especially the ones that live beyond my reach.

The fact that I’m single is something I still struggle with.

There’s this belief that if I were normal, I wouldn’t be alone. That I can’t be joyful if I’m still single. And yet, the truth is, I could easily be in a relationship and deeply unhappy — just like I was during the seven years I was married, and in other relationships that were already collapsing long before they ended.

I was ingrained with the belief that love had to look a certain way.
Passion.
Lust.
Obsession.

I called it love. But it wasn’t. It was an obsession, a yearning — usually for someone who didn’t feel the same way… until they did. And the moment they did, the desire faded, and I slowly fell out of love.

What I called love often had more to do with intensity than intimacy. It consisted of anticipation, longing, and the hope of being chosen.

I didn’t know it then, but I was chasing a feeling — not a person.

I know how this sounds. I could sugarcoat it, but why?

This pattern repeated itself throughout my life until I married — a relationship that should have never happened, except for one undeniable truth: it brought my son into the world. And through him, I learned what love actually feels like. Not romantic love — but love in its purest form.

“Accept the things we cannot change and have the courage to know the difference”

I think that’s how it goes.

The moment we realize we cannot make someone love us — no matter what games we play, what clothes we wear, how we act — life becomes simple. But romantic love loses its addictive quality.

Am I crazy for thinking this?

I spent my teens and young adulthood trapped inside belief systems about love. I focused on attaining someone I desired. Acting a certain way. Wearing the right clothes. Saying the right things. Overanalyzing every word, every look, every interaction.

It was emotionally exhausting, and at the core of it all was insecurity — deepening every time.

Eventually, I settled. And while I don’t regret that decision, I know we weren’t compatible. Still, when I think of my son, I feel nothing but gratitude.

So — que sera sera. Hakuna matata.
Insert Serenity Prayer here.

Even so, my mind hadn’t quite caught up yet.

I’ve been having vivid dreams lately. In them, I’m chasing someone — until they turn around and fall for me. And then, oddly enough, I am no longer drawn to them.

The dreams made me question whether the excitement I’ve been searching for is actually a distorted idea of love.

And slowly, I found myself returning to the same place.

The truth, that once we accept what is, suffering loosens its grip. The things we can’t change shouldn’t even be part of the equation.

Because we humans are terrible at knowing what truly cannot be changed. I’m not talking about weather or natural forces — I’m talking about the subtle ways we’re misled.

Marketing tells us: buy this lipstick, and you’ll be desired. Wear these clothes, and you’ll be lovable. Read this book. Learn this psychology. Hire this dating coach.

Anything — just don’t be yourself.

So maybe the practice is simpler than all of that.

Accept what is unfolding in this moment, as it is.
Notice how the tension releases?

And please let us remember who we were as children.
What brought us joy? Curiosity?

Are we doing any of these things now?

Because when I’m honest, the more present I am with my own life, the less I feel the need to chase someone else’s attention.

Longing subsides when my life feels lived.

Romantic longing loses its addictive pull when we accept that love cannot be forced — and that chasing intensity is often insecurity in disguise.

Somewhere along the way, I began to notice how much I measured my joy through romantic anticipation — the hope, the imagining, the almost.

I still catch myself there sometimes.

I’m listening now, more than I used to.

And that, for now, feels closer to love.

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When you feel pulled into romantic longing
You might recognize it like this:

• the desire to be chosen
• the pull of romantic anticipation
• the habit of seeking fulfillment through the idea of love
• imagining how something could unfold
• feeling like something is missing right now

Pause.

Take one slow breath.

Ask yourself: am I chasing a person—or a feeling I want from them?

Be honest.

If it’s a feeling—and you can’t control it—let it be.

Then do one thing that’s already part of your life.

Go back to what you were doing.
Write one sentence.
Text a friend.
Step outside for a few minutes.

Keep it simple.
No fixing. No chasing.

I’ve been turning moments like this into simple, practical practices. I’ll share more soon. subscribe here.