My stomach was a knot of anxious pride at 8 PM on a Tuesday, sitting in the vinyl booth of The Gilded Spoon. I was trying to explain the complex, layered grief of my grandmother's cooking to Liam. He'd just ordered the chicken-fried steak, a dish he called 'comfort food.' I was pushing around a forkful of her signature oxtails, the rich, dark gravy pooling on the plate. I tried to articulate how her food was a language of love and survival, a history I was terrified would die with her. I stumbled over my words, feeling pretentious and exposed. Liam just listened, chewing thoughtfully. He swallowed, dabbed his lips with a napkin, and said, 'So it's like a savory history book.' The phrase was clumsy, an oversimplification. A silence stretched, thick and awkward. Then he reached over, not for my hand, but for a piece of my oxtails, scooping it up with a piece of bread. 'Tell me the story again,' he said softly, 'but this time, start from the beginning.'
I felt my heart crack open. Right there, in that sticky vinyl booth. It wasn't the perfect words I'd been desperate for. It was better. It was him trying. Actually trying. And that's when it hit me - the pattern I'd been blind to for years.
Here's the thing nobody tells you about dating: it's a mirror. A cruel, honest mirror. I spent my twenties chasing people who made me feel like I was too much. Too intense, too emotional, too damn serious. I dated a guy who called my passion "dramatic." Another who said my need for deep conversation was "exhausting." I felt my shoulders hunch every time I spoke about something I loved. I learned to shrink myself, to make my world smaller so it could fit in their pocket.
My hands shook when I finally admitted this to my therapist. "I think I'm broken," I whispered. "I keep picking people who don't see me." She just nodded. "And what does that say about how you see yourself?"
Oof. That landed. Hard.
You see, I thought I was looking for love. But what I was actually doing was seeking confirmation. Confirmation that I wasn't worthy of the kind of love I truly wanted. So I chose people who would give me that exact confirmation. Over and over.
There's this concept about birds of a feather. It sounds quaint, but it's vicious. We don't just attract what we want - we attract what we believe we deserve. And if deep down, you think you're too much, too complicated, too damaged? You'll find someone who agrees with you. They won't say it outright. They'll show it. In the way they dismiss your stories. In the way they make you feel foolish for caring deeply.
I remember one specific night. I was dating Mark. I'd spent hours cooking for him - a complicated dish my grandmother taught me. When he arrived, he barely glanced at it. "Smells good," he said, already scrolling on his phone. I felt my face burn. Not from anger. From shame. Because I'd invited that treatment. I'd shown up with my whole heart, and some broken part of me wasn't surprised when he trampled it.
I went home that night and cried. Not because he was a jerk. But because I kept letting jerks in.
Then came Liam. And the oxtails moment.
When he asked me to start the story over while actually eating my food - tasting my history, my grandmother's love, my fear of loss - I felt something shift. He wasn't perfect. His "savory history book" line was clumsy. But he showed up. He tried. He wanted to understand. And I realized: I had never, not once, dated someone who tried that hard.
Why? Because trying that hard requires vulnerability. And vulnerability requires self-worth. I hadn't been showing up as someone worthy of that effort. So I never received it.
If you're reading this and your stomach is tightening because you see yourself in my story - I'm sorry. It hurts. It's uncomfortable. But it's also the beginning of everything changing.
Here's what I learned about breaking the birds-of-a-feather trap:
I won't lie to you - this isn't a straight line. Even after Liam, I still find myself shrinking sometimes. Old patterns die hard. There are days I still hear that voice saying, "Don't be so intense, don't scare him away." But now I can name it. I can see it. And I can choose differently.
Last week, I told Liam about a dream I had - something weird and symbolic and deeply personal. My old self would have edited it, made it sound more "normal." But I just told him. All of it. He listened. Then he said, "That sounds like your brain trying to tell you something important."
He didn't have the perfect words. But he had the perfect presence. And that's the difference.
If you're stuck in this pattern, I see you. I was you. The knot in your stomach, the shaking hands, the desperate hope that this time will be different - I know it all.
But here's what I wish someone had told me when I was sitting in that vinyl booth, feeling too much and not enough all at once: you don't need to be less. You need to believe you're worthy of someone who isn't afraid of your more.
The mirror doesn't lie. But you can change what it reflects. It starts with seeing yourself clearly - messy, complicated, imperfect, and utterly worthy. Then, and only then, will you start attracting people who see it too.
I'm still learning. Still messing up. Still terrified sometimes that I'll fall back into old patterns. But I'm also - finally - choosing people who choose me back. All of me. Even the parts that write poetry about oxtails at 2 AM.
Especially those parts.
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