The Myth of "The One"

We didn’t talk much that morning. Just sat there, watching the sun catch the road like it had a secret to tell.

It’s funny—when I was younger, I used to believe that love meant finding “The One.” My soulmate. My twin flame. Chalk it up to Disney movies, maybe, or just being a kid who wanted to feel safe and chosen. Even in elementary school, that was the daydream running through my head. Not “what do you want to be when you grow up?” but “who’s going to sit beside me forever?”

Back then, I thought love meant never arguing. Liking all the same things. Wanting to be together every second of every day. I imagined perfect harmony as the only true sign of love, and anything less as failure.

Now I know better. Or… I’m learning to know better. Love, real love, is much more chaotic and beautiful and maddening and sacred than that.

Love isn’t about sameness. You can share a soul and still not share a playlist. You can have everything in common or almost nothing at all—and either way, it can still be love. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. I’ve grown because of it.

And I’ve also been broken by it.

There are people who will pretend to love you. There are people who believe they love you, but their love shows up as control, or chaos, or pain. There are people who love you in their minds but not in their actions. And there are people who don’t know how to receive love at all—especially the kind of love I give.

Because the way I love? It’s infinite. Unconditional. That’s not a brag—it’s just the truth. And it’s not always easy for others to accept.

Some people see that kind of love and assume it’s fake. A trap. A trick with strings attached. (Honestly, sometimes I believe that too—because of what I’ve been through. Because of the times when love was a trap.)

Some people take that love and weaponize it. Others reject it outright. And some try to return it, but it never quite matches—not because they don’t care, but because love flows differently in them. And I’m trying to learn that mismatch doesn’t always mean malice. That a crooked seam doesn’t mean the fabric will tear.

Still… there’s a part of me that aches. A part that longs to be fully, wholly seen and loved in return. No disclaimers. No fear. No hidden clause.

And maybe that kind of love—the storybook kind—isn’t real. Maybe it’s a story we tell children to keep them soft and open-hearted a little longer. Because I’ve seen what happens when you tell a child the whole truth too soon. I’ve seen what it steals from them.

So maybe it’s a good lie. A useful one.

But I also think there’s truth in it, buried under the fantasy. Because even if there’s no perfect love, there is still real love. Messy love. Growing love. Love that challenges you to become better—not because you’re not already enough, but because you are enough, and you deserve to become the fullest version of yourself.

Love can be a mirror, yes—but it can also be a ladder.

I’ve learned that the best kind of love doesn’t make you smaller to fit someone’s mold. It invites you to expand. It opens doors you didn’t know were there. It calls forward your softness, your strength, your silliness, your sorrow—and says, “All of this is welcome here.”

Love is work. Love is choosing, again and again, to sit back down next to someone even when the bus ride gets bumpy. Even when the scenery gets bleak. Even when you don’t know the destination anymore.

And here’s the thing I’m finally starting to understand:

There isn’t just one seat. There isn’t just one person. The bus of life has room for many—friends, family, lovers, partners, soul-kin. And I’m already lucky enough to have several people sitting next to me. Some of them hold my hand. Some of them just sit quietly. Some make me laugh. Some challenge me to think deeper. And some offer rest when I’m too tired to keep going.

I used to think love was finding one person to sit beside forever.

Now I think love is learning how to share the ride.

And maybe—just maybe—trusting that there’s always room beside me for one more.