I grew up believing in a family myth so deeply embedded that it shaped much of my early understanding of love, relationships, and life. It wasn’t some whimsical tale about a distant ancestor or an ancient relic buried under the house—no, this was far more personal. My parents, both lecturers of impeccable intellect, wove a narrative about love that I now realize was more fiction than truth. They called it “The Rational Love Doctrine,” and as an impressionable child sitting cross-legged on the floor of our Beijing apartment, I took it in as gospel.

The doctrine went something like this: Love, when approached correctly, should be logical, harmonious, and above all, deeply compatible. If two people shared values, goals, and intellectual chemistry, then love would flow naturally—less like a fireworks display and more like the quiet, unerring constancy of a stream. And like a stream, it would erode all obstacles in its patient path. Beautiful, right?

Only, as I would eventually discover, love is not a stream. Love is more like Beijing’s chaotic subway system during rush hour—crowded, messy, and occasionally frustrating enough to make you question every decision that got you there.

The Rational Love Doctrine in Action

For much of my early life, my parents seemed to be the embodiment of their own myth. They were calm, respectful, and always in agreement—or so it appeared. My father would start a thought at the dinner table, and my mother would finish it, both of them nodding as if to say, “See? This is what a perfectly compatible partnership looks like.”

By the time I was old enough to start dating, I carried this belief like luggage too heavy for such a modest trip. I was convinced that finding a partner should be like solving an elegant math equation—plug in the right variables and arrive at an undeniably correct solution. So, I approached love the way one might draft a college application essay. I valued “alignment” above all else: Are our intellectual interests compatible? Are their life ambitions properly aligned with mine? What do their five-year plans say about their emotional stability?

This felt smart at the time. As my university friends fell into messy, dramatic relationships littered with jealousy and high-stakes arguments about who ate the last slice of pizza, I held myself above the fray. I wasn’t going to settle for chaos. My parents had given me the blueprint for rational love, and I was determined to follow it.

Cut to me, sitting in a Shanghai café years later, freshly dumped by a perfectly “rational” boyfriend. The relationship had made sense in every way I thought mattered—he fit my criteria like a made-to-order suit. Yet when we broke up, he said something I’ll never forget: “You’re so good at analyzing me, but it feels like you stopped seeing me a while ago.” Ouch.

When the Myth Got Busted

That breakup triggered a quiet rebellion against the Rational Love Doctrine. For the first time, I questioned whether love could—or should—fit neatly into my parents’ fluid, intellectual vision. After all, wasn’t it odd how little passion or spontaneity their myth allowed? Wasn’t love supposed to feel a little wild sometimes, like putting on a traditional qipao only to realize it doesn’t quite fit right but you love it anyway?

The turning point came during my time in New York, when I watched a Broadway production of "The Phantom of the Opera." The Phantom wasn’t rational. Christine wasn’t making sensible decisions. Yet their connection—part magic, part madness—hit me in a place I didn’t know could ache. And for the first time, I realized something my parents’ myth had conveniently left out: Love, at its best, defies reason.

That realization brought clarity to so many moments I’d dismissed as “messy” or “pointless” in past relationships. There was the time a boyfriend and I got into a ridiculous argument about how to cook dumplings and then laughed ourselves silly when we forgot to set the timer. Or the ex who used to surprise me with handwritten notes stuffed inside folded napkins—the kind of thing that made zero logical sense but made me smile for days.

Suddenly, these moments felt significant in a way my parents’ narrative had never allowed. They weren’t harmonious or compatible, but they were real.

Lessons from Unpacking the Myth

Once I unpacked the myth I’d inherited, I started noticing how many others carry similar baggage about love and relationships. Maybe for you, it’s the belief that your soulmate will arrive on cue, or that all great romances should come with a grand cinematic kiss in the rain. Whatever your family’s myth may look like, unpacking it is key to finding a relationship that feels authentic. Here are a few lessons I’ve uncovered along the way:

  • Lesson 1: Compatibility Matters, But Chemistry Does Too
    Rational compatibility—shared interests, aligned goals—can pave the road, but chemistry drives the car. Without that spark, logical partnerships often feel more like business agreements than romances.

  • Lesson 2: Messiness is Part of the Charm
    Give yourself permission to embrace the messy parts of love—disagreements, unplanned adventures, strange inside jokes only the two of you find funny. These “imperfections” build intimacy in ways spreadsheets never can.

  • Lesson 3: Don’t Overthink It
    You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes, piecing together every aspect of your partner’s personality to determine whether they’re “the one.” Trust your instincts. Sometimes, the heart knows what the mind can’t explain.

  • Lesson 4: Question the “Shoulds”
    If you’ve inherited a myth (family-taught or otherwise) about how relationships “should” look, consider if it’s serving you or sabotaging your happiness. My parents’ myth, while romantic, didn’t leave room for the wild, transformative energy love often brings.

A New Myth for the Taking

Though my parents still believe in their Rational Love Doctrine, I’ve begun crafting a new myth—one that resonates with the tension, joy, and unpredictability of modern relationships. It says that love can be chaotic and carefree, that it requires both flexibility and faith, and that sometimes, the best “rules” are the ones you choose to break.

So, to those out there still grappling with inherited myths about relationships: take a deep breath, thank your family for the stories they’ve passed down, and then—set them aside. The love you create will always be more magnificent than the blueprint you were handed.