As He Should

There is a quiet, understated power in knowing the kind of love I deserve, not one built on grand gestures or performative affection, but on the steady, grounded presence of a man who chooses me. Deliberately. Respectfully. Daily.

For a long time, that ideal lived in my mind, not as fantasy, but as a standard forged through self-respect. I believed in that kind of love long before I experienced even fragments of it, because deep down, I’ve always known: real love isn’t chaotic. It doesn’t demand a performance. It’s calm. Intentional. Anchored in mutual care.

There was a time I thought I’d found it. And maybe I did, in moments. But life, as it often does, handed me clarity disguised as disappointment. What I once mistook for fulfilment turned out to be a lesson. Not a waste of time, no, something far more useful. It was refinement. A sanding down of illusion until only truth remained.

That truth? I would rather wait alone than settle with someone unable to meet me where I stand, fully, and with intention.

I’ve never had to declare my worth loudly. It’s always been lived, quietly but firmly: in the boundaries I upheld, the peace I protected, and the self-respect I refused to compromise. For years, I built emotional stability within myself, a sanctuary. And whether or not anyone shares it, it remains intact. Whole. Sacred.

Modern dating, especially in your twenties, often feels like a battlefield dressed up as a buffet. We’re told to be chill. To want less. To laugh off red flags as quirks. But I learned, sometimes painfully, that asking for consistency, respect, and emotional presence is not asking for too much. It’s only too much for the wrong person.

So now, single and steady, I know what I’m looking for. And more importantly, I know what I won’t tolerate. I do not chase. I do not plead. I do not shrink. And no one worthy will ask me to.

There were moments, of course, when I questioned all of this. When loneliness tried to gaslight me into compromise. When silence tempted me to believe that discernment was just pickiness in disguise. When the world cheered for relationships that were picture-perfect on the surface but hollow underneath.

But I never bartered my wholeness for company. I didn’t let appearances talk me out of substance. And now I see, solitude wasn’t loneliness. It was preparation. A sacred waiting room, not a punishment.

Because love, true love, doesn’t ask you to become smaller. It doesn’t test your endurance as proof of your worth. It meets you, fully. It respects your non-negotiables without resistance. It grows, not just in intimacy, but in effort, in communication, in consistency.

I haven’t found that love yet, at least not in its lasting form. But I still believe in it. Not as some unreachable fantasy, but as a rare and precious truth. And more importantly, I believe in myself. In the woman who waits for that kind of love without apology. Without folding. Without flinching.

So to the women still navigating the noise, don’t let this world convince you that your standards are too high, or that your depth is too much. They are not burdens. They are your compass. Your birthright. You do not need to become smaller to be loved. You only need to be brave enough to wait.

Because when that love arrives, when it stands in front of you unafraid, you will not feel like you’re asking too much. You will wonder why you ever entertained anything less.

The love I believe in? It’s still out there. Not impossible. Just exceptional.

And I? I am rare enough to wait.