(A reflection on relationships, healing, and self-acceptance)

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about relationships and how judgment shows up—especially toward women.

I’ve watched videos like the “pop the balloon” dating clips, both the women’s and men’s editions. What stood out to me was how judgmental the conversations often become, particularly when men are choosing women. And it stirred something in me, because I know how easily people reduce a person’s worth to a list of checkboxes.

That reflection hit close to home.

I’m divorced twice. I have two kids—older kids—and I’ve felt the weight of wondering what that looks like to someone else. At one point, while talking to a man, I shared that I had been divorced twice. His response was, “So you give up?”

And I remember thinking, No. I didn’t give up.
You don’t know how hard I tried. You don’t know how much effort, prayer, compromise, and endurance went into those relationships. But there comes a point where choosing yourself isn’t quitting—it’s recognizing that something is no longer healthy.

Now, at 38, as I think about dating again, I find myself asking questions I didn’t expect to still be asking.

What do I have to offer?

I can offer companionship. I can offer home-cooked meals, laughter, travel, conversation, someone to sit with, talk with, grow with. I can offer intimacy. But then I pause and ask myself—do I need to offer anything at all?

If you’ve done your work, and I’ve done mine—if we’ve healed to the best of our ability—aren’t we simply coming together to enjoy one another’s presence? To walk alongside each other, not to complete each other or prove anything?

People talk a lot about purpose. But when I watched the movie Soul, what I took from it wasn’t that life is about chasing some grand purpose—it’s about being. About living. Everyone has their own assignment. Some people walk alongside you for a season to help with that assignment. Others come into your life to teach you something, even if it’s painful.

When I think about what I want now, it’s actually very simple.

I want partnership. Companionship. Someone to cook with, find shows to watch, travel with, have conversations and debates with. Someone steady. Someone present.

Yes, I want stability—financially, emotionally, mentally, spiritually. I want someone healed, whole, grounded, and in relationship with God. But above all, I don’t want a relationship built on performance.

If you’ve cleaned up your life, and I’ve cleaned up mine, what do we really have to prove to each other?

Still, fear shows up. Fear of being hurt again. Fear of choosing wrong. The desire to be chosen, accepted, and loved without having to earn it.

I’ve wondered if it would be easier to settle for physical connection alone. Would it meet a need? Maybe temporarily. But I know myself well enough now to know it wouldn’t fulfill me. Because what I want isn’t just physical—it’s emotional safety, shared life, and peace.

There was a time when I was okay with it being just me and God. And then God showed me something—I chose Him because He was safe. And I admitted it. Yes, God, You are safe. I know You won’t hurt me.

Then life surprised me.

I prayed for a future husband. I met someone. I got married. And things didn’t work out. What I thought wouldn’t happen did. What I thought I didn’t want, I experienced.

Could I have stayed? Yes.
Would I have been happy? No.
Would I have been performing instead of living? Absolutely.

So, I sit with all of this now—the questions, the hope, the fear, the longing.

Maybe the real work isn’t figuring out what I have to offer someone else but remembering that I don’t need to prove my worth to be deserving of healthy love. Maybe partnership isn’t about auditioning or earning a place, but about meeting someone from a grounded, honest place and choosing each other with intention.

For now, I’m allowing myself to hold the questions without rushing the answers. Trusting that clarity will come in time. And reminding myself that I am already whole—whether or not love arrives in the way I imagine.