jo

There is just something in the air during the holiday season that makes me desperate for a man. Usually, I dread Christmas family reunions because of the aunts who give unsolicited comments about my weight, but now I dread it even more because I can guarantee you that the night wouldn’t end without at least one aunt or grandma asking if I have a boyfriend yet. It was fine at first, really, because a bunch of my cousins were cruising solo as well—but that was two years ago. I’m now twenty-one years old, and I’m the only grandchild who hasn’t brought home a plus one during the holidays.

And it’s not just during family dinners that my lack of a love life feels painfully obvious. It follows me into my daily scrolls, my group chats, and the stories my friends casually tell—constant reminders that everyone else seems to be collecting romantic experiences while I’m left imagining what any of it even feels like.

At least once a day, I see a passive-aggressive repost on TikTok from my friend referencing the boy who wronged her. Then they tell me about their annoying talking stages, the failed dates they’ve been to, and the bases they’ve almost stupidly crossed. But, as empathetic as I consider myself to be, I genuinely can’t comprehend what those might’ve felt like. I mean, how can I? I’ve never had a smidge of romantic interaction in the last twenty-one years.

You see, growing up, I was never really the type that boys at school showed interest in—I’ve never been asked out during recess, I wasn’t passed anonymous notes during classes, and no boy has ever asked to sit beside me during first Friday masses so we could hold hands during Our Father (I was from a Catholic school). 

Over the last few years, I’ve been trying to convince myself that I was okay being the chronically single friend. I lie and tell people that I’m just not really looking for a relationship, when in truth, I am on my hands and knees every night, praying that I finally (organically) meet the one. While my friends post about their relationship issues, I’m out here posting about yearning for one in the first place.

I used to be the poster child for gifted kids—or at least every adult in my life made me feel like I was. But now, the only poster I’ll probably end up on is a wanted one.

I was convinced that I’m destined for great things. My high school teacher said I was the best writer in class, and my guidance counselor told me I was bound for success. My family also never failed to remind me how proud they were of how mature I was for my age.

I don’t know when it happened but some time in the last twenty-one years, I’ve become more comfortable with mediocrity. 

I’ve been wanting to start this blog for longer than I’d like to admit. I’ve written and rewritten countless drafts only to press delete. I’m just convinced that nothing I had to say was worth sharing, nothing felt extraordinary enough to post. 

I was scrolling online the other day, as one does, looking for inspiration on how to start a good blog and I fell into a rabbit hole of self-development videos, all preaching the same simple advice: to just start. And sure, that sounds easy enough. But it’s not. Not when you’re anything like me—pessimistic, overcritical, and constantly convinced that everything I make could be better. I started this draft back in summer, and now there’s only fifty-three days left before Christmas.