Lessons I Wish I Knew Earlier

The Silent Tyranny of “Should”

There was a time when my life was ruled by “shoulds.” You should date someone with a stable job. You should like the “nice guy.” You should just settle down by now because, heaven forbid, you’re turning 30. For a long time, I tried to follow those “shoulds” like a map to a happily ever after. Here’s the kicker: they weren’t my map at all. They were the hand-me-down dreams of relatives, society, and every romantic comedy played on a loop during Lunar New Year gatherings.

My realization? The word “should” is the side-eye of the dating world—judgmental, passive-aggressive, and guaranteed to steal your joy if you let it. I wish I’d known earlier to swap should for could: “I could date this person, but are they right for me?” “I could pursue marriage, but what does my path to happiness look like?" When I learned to silence the “shoulds,” my life stopped feeling like a dutiful essay for my parents and more like a poem I was free to write myself.

Red Flags Look Different Depending on the Lighting

You know the saying, “Love is blind”? I’d amend it to say, “Love is blind—or at least dangerously nearsighted.” The ex who ghosted me after two years together once brought me soup at 3 a.m. when I had the flu, so I excused his habit of conveniently “forgetting” it was my birthday. The guy who left me on read for days would occasionally send sweet, heartfelt texts, so I convinced myself his communication style just needed time to “evolve.” Spoiler alert: it didn’t.

Red flags aren’t always neon signs screaming DANGER!. Sometimes, they’re whispers hidden in someone’s everyday habits: how they talk to waitstaff, how often they interrupt, or whether they dismiss your passions as “cute hobbies.” A red flag in soft candlelight is still a red flag. And if you squint too hard to overlook it, you might just trip over it later.

Here’s a little mantra I use now: When someone shows you who they are—not in grand gestures, but in the small, quiet moments—believe them.

Self-Love Is Not a Mask You Put On for Others

Ah, the old advice: “You need to love yourself before someone else can love you.” I used to think this meant fixing all my insecurities, pulling myself together, and showing up to dates as a picture-perfect package no one could resist. It was less self-love and more self-promotion. I treated dating like a job interview: polished résumé, rehearsed lines, and zero room for emotional vulnerability.

Well, reader, let me tell you how that ended. I spent so much energy trying to look like someone who “had it all figured out” that I forgot to tap into who I actually was: someone who loved poetry more than politics, who cried during rom-coms and the occasional detergent commercial, who was still figuring things out, just like everyone else.

Self-love isn’t about arriving flawless at the doorstep of love. It’s about treating yourself with kindness, even when you’re a mess. It’s about learning to sit with your own company and realizing you’re not as terrible a companion as you thought. Once I started seeing myself as worth my own time, my relationships deepened too.

Life Is Too Short for Beige Romance

I once dated someone my parents adored. We’ll call him Mr. Bland, because even his favorite color was beige. He was kind, polite, and reliable—he always texted me back in full sentences and never once suggested splitting the bill. Sounds perfect, right? Except he had the charm of a day-old baozi. Our dates felt like reading IKEA instructions: tedious and utterly devoid of magic. Yet, I stayed for months. Why? Because it felt safe. Safe enough to smother.

One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned is that safety isn’t the same as compatibility. Sure, comfort is important—but when “safe” becomes an excuse to avoid risk or passion, you could trap yourself in a life that's fine but unfulfilling. Dating—and love—should have some spice. Not necessarily the volcano-hot kind, but at least enough to make your heart skip a beat.

Looking back, I wish I’d had the courage to chase technicolor romance instead of settling for beige. Because life’s too short for lukewarm coffee or half-hearted love.

The “Perfect Partner” Does Not Exist, but Good Enough Can Be Amazing

When I was younger, I had a checklist for my ideal partner. It included things like intellectual conversation (thanks, Mom and Dad), a deep appreciation of Li Bai, and the ability to quote Gabriel García Márquez by heart. I wanted someone who read books thicker than a brick and sent me handwritten love letters tied in ribbon. Like Mr. Darcy, but with more emotional availability.

Now? I laugh at the thought. My current partner has never read Márquez, thinks Du Fu was “a guy with decent poems,” and leaves me Post-it notes instead of love letters. But he listens to me—really listens. He fights fair when we argue. He is kind to children and stray animals. And when I mention some niche historical fact, he fits it into conversation like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s heard all day. In short? He’s human, not perfect. And I’ve learned to treasure that.

Perfection is like a mirage—it looks dazzling from a distance but starts evaporating the closer you get. Real love, sustainable love, is built on shared values, effort, and an ability to find joy in the everyday. Your perfect partner? They’re probably already good enough.

What I Know Now

There’s a verse by the Chinese poet Su Shi that I often think about: “With fireflies for candles and the moon my screen, in solitude, I rest with the universe as my companion.” It’s not about love, exactly, but it reminds me of something valuable: sometimes the most meaningful relationships aren’t external but the one you have with yourself.

If I could go back and tell my younger self—sitting heartbroken in a Beijing teahouse or wandering New York’s rainy streets—just one thing, it would be this: you can’t control who loves you or how long they’ll stay, but you can choose to honor yourself. Laugh, cry, and stumble as you will, but trust that the journey is worth it.

Whatever stage you’re in—first dates, forever love, or somewhere in between—remember: you are worthy of connection, of passion, of poetry in all its forms. And you don’t need to be perfect to get there. Love might be messy, but so are most of the best things in life.