As He Should
There is an understated power in being loved properly, not through grandiose displays or emotionally performative gestures, but through the quiet consistency of a man who understands what it means to choose you, deliberately and respectfully, day after day. Or at least, that is the standard to which I hold love now. I once believed that kind of steadiness had found me, and for a time, I allowed myself to settle into it, to believe that perhaps this was the beginning of the love story I had always carried somewhere deep within me. But life, ever the great teacher, has a way of refining our vision, sharpening our understanding of not just what we desire, but what we require.
From early on, I have maintained high standards, not out of entitlement, but out of self-respect. I have never needed to shout my worth from the rooftops; it is woven into the way I carry myself, the boundaries I uphold, and the relationships I permit into my life. I have spent years cultivating inner peace and emotional stability; why would I jeopardise that hard-earned sanctuary for someone who cannot even manage the basics of care, consideration, and respect?
Modern dating, particularly in your twenties, is a curious terrain, riddled with contradictions. One foot planted in adulthood, the other forever tripping over emotionally unavailable men in oversized hoodies who have mistaken nonchalance for mystery. We are told to be chill, to ask for less, to downplay our dreams and our standards lest we find ourselves alone. But let us be perfectly clear: we do not ask for too much. We ask it of the wrong people. There is a great difference.
My expectations have never been excessive, despite what some may claim. I simply refuse to accept the bare minimum dressed up as effort. I do not chase. I do not plead. I do not shrink myself into silence in hopes of becoming more "palatable." If respect, consistency, and emotional availability are not offered freely, I will not barter for them. Love, at its core, should not feel like a negotiation for basic decency.
There were, of course, moments when I questioned this resolve. When loneliness whispered that perhaps compromise was the price of companionship. When I watched others settle for transactional affection, for relationships that looked good on the outside but felt hollow at their core. When I sat alone at dinner tables, choosing solitude over entertaining anyone who found my standards a burden rather than a beacon. And yet, through it all, solitude proved infinitely less exhausting than emotional instability ever could.
For a while, I believed I had found what I sought, and in some ways, I did. I found glimpses of what is possible. I saw how love could look when it was tender, when it was present, when it at least attempted to meet me where I stood. But love, real love, must do more than attempt. It must endure. It must strengthen rather than deplete. It must meet not only our hopes, but our non-negotiables. And when it does not, it is an act of profound self-respect to walk away, no matter how promising the beginning seemed.
What I expect now is clear, not in a checklist way, but as a lived truth shaped by experience. I seek emotional maturity, a man who communicates rather than deflects, who meets difficult conversations with openness rather than defensiveness, who listens with the intent to understand rather than merely to reply. I seek consistency, not just in fleeting declarations, but in the daily, ordinary ways a man shows up without needing to be reminded of the privilege it is to do so. I seek genuine curiosity, someone who notices the small things not as a tactic, but because he is genuinely invested in knowing me as I am, in all my layers and complexities. I seek respect for individuality, a man who does not view me as a project to fix or a puzzle to solve, but as a whole, complete person to celebrate and stand alongside. I seek reciprocity, a love where emotional labour is not extracted as currency, but offered freely in both directions, because mutual effort is the foundation of mutual respect.
This is not an unrealistic list scribbled out of romantic idealism; it is the bare minimum for building something worthy, something lasting. It is not a question of demanding too much, but of understanding that love is not meant to be a series of auditions, compromises, or silent resentments.
And so, my standards remain, fortified by experience, not weakened by disappointment. I am not hardened, but I am sharper. I am not bitter, but I am better at recognising what is for me and what is merely a distraction. I am, above all, patient enough to wait for a love that does not require me to apologise for being extraordinary.
To the women still navigating the noise: do not dilute yourselves. Do not apologise for being complex, intelligent, ambitious, or emotionally self-aware. You are not intimidating, you are a standard. You are a force. You are the exception, not the rule. Let your standards be the filter through which love must pass. The right man will not see them as obstacles to overcome or conditions to endure. He will see them as a map, a sacred one, leading straight to you.
And until he arrives, until someone worthy steps forward without flinching at the depth and power of who you are, walk alone with your head high. There is far more dignity, far more beauty, in solitary strength than in the shallow company of those who cannot meet you where you stand.
The love you have always imagined is not too much. It is not naive. It is not unrealistic. It is simply rare. And you, my dear, are rare enough to wait for it.
