Have you ever had a book scoot across a library table and plant itself squarely in front of you, metaphorically speaking? My encounter with Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence felt exactly like that. Okay, technically, I picked it up from a “staff favorites” shelf during my perpetually broke college days at Bowdoin, but the way it fell into my hands felt like fate. I thought I was just grabbing a decent distraction from my dorm-mate’s relentless playing of “Wonderwall” on guitar. Instead, I got a guide to navigating love, society, and the limits we place on our own happiness.

At first blush, it might seem a little strange to pin life-altering revelations on a period novel published in 1920. But this story of thwarted love, societal expectations, and quiet rebellion wormed its way into my mind and, honestly, my heart. If you’ve ever found yourself stuck between what your family expects of you and what you dream of for yourself (hello, Thanksgiving-table-inquiry-about-your-love-life veteran here), this novel is unnervingly relatable. And while it’s not exactly teeming with explicit dating advice, it taught me lessons that transformed how I approach relationships—in ways both quietly profound and downright practical.

When Obligation Meets Infatuation: Know Thyself

At its core, Wharton’s novel is about Newland Archer, a man who has everything: a charming fiancée, a prestigious New York family, and an enviable social calendar. Enter Countess Ellen Olenska, a saucy, scandal-infused émigré with a flair for European elegance and, dare I say it, absolutely killer velvet gowns. Newland is smitten. But—and there’s always a “but” with forbidden romance—he’s already promised to someone else: the dutiful, predictable May Welland.

I devoured Newland’s internal conflict as if it were a salted caramel whoopie pie (a Maine delicacy, trust me). But here’s the kicker: his dilemma exposed my habit of confusing obligation with affection—and how easy it is to mistake security for happiness.

How many of us have stayed in a relationship because it looked good on paper? I briefly dated a guy who ticked off all the “practical” checkboxes: smart, financially stable, polite to waiters. He owned a kayak, people. A kayak! But every time he brought up meal-prepping quinoa bowls or meticulously mapped out our weekends months in advance, I felt like I was suffocating. No judgment if quinoa is your thing, but Newland’s tragic back-and-forth over Ellen reminded me of something critical: attraction becomes angst when there’s a mismatch between what we want and what we think we should want.

The takeaway? Before diving headfirst into any relationship—or thinking of jumping ship—ask yourself if your feelings stem from genuine connection or a sense of duty. Is this person adding color to your life or just keeping the quotas filled? Spoiler alert: life’s too short for beige.

Societal Expectations Are Relationship Kryptonite

Wharton’s high society was dripping with rules: What silverware to use. Who you could be seen with. When to clap at the opera. Newland’s every gesture is scrutinized by a social order more rigid than the starched table linens at a Kennebunkport lobster dinner.

Here’s where the modern-day parallel smacked me like a rogue swing on a playground: social media. Think about it—approval-seeking is practically built into the fabric of Instagram-couple culture. Filtered vacation pics, choreographed dance challenges, gushing captions: it’s all designed to display your relationship like some curated menu at a five-star restaurant. And then there’s the unsolicited commentary from your family, friends, and acquaintances about what “type” of person “fits” you best.

One summer, my Great Aunt Beatrice cornered me during a clambake to strongly recommend dating someone “from a nice New England family.” Her reasoning? They’d understand the importance of a well-heeled L.L.Bean boot (I wish I were kidding). The pressure was laughable, sure, but it also reminded me of Newland’s grim acceptance of a life chosen more by societal obligation than personal desire.

Wharton taught me that you can’t live your life—or love—by someone else’s expectations. Sure, Aunt Beatrice may never approve of my outdoorsy ex who wore flannel with holes in it, but he made me laugh until I was doubled over like a capsized dinghy. That’s worth more than 10,000 hand-me-down monograms.

Listen to the Quiet Voices Inside You

If The Age of Innocence taught me one actionable relationship skill, it’s this: your intuition rarely shouts, but it always knows. Newland spends most of the novel ignoring the little voice in his head whispering that he’s on the wrong path. Instead, he dithers, he doubts, and he delays until the only thing left is regret—in a final scene that feels like a gut punch wrapped in wistfulness.

And gosh, can I relate. Take it from someone who once dated a guy for six months despite a first-date red flag that was visible from actual Canada (he yawned when I mentioned I’d studied literature—it’s a wonder I didn’t walk straight out into the snow). I knew it wouldn’t last, but I kept waiting for an external sign, a lightning bolt, a neon billboard screaming, “DUMP HIM ALREADY!” Spoiler: life provides no such billboard. The best decisions I’ve made—walking away from destined-to-stagnate relationships, leaning into ones that lit me up—came from finally tuning into the subtle nudges I had suppressed.

Need actionable advice? Practice leaning into your intuition, especially in those calm, unglamorous moments. Instead of analyzing whether someone is “right” for you based on their résumé, external approval, or—heaven forbid—their kayak, ask yourself how they make you feel on a lazy Sunday afternoon or during a frustrating Tuesday commute. If your answer feels warm, effortless, and expansive, you’re on the right track.

Love Is Rarely Neat—and That’s Okay

There’s a reason The Age of Innocence, despite its prim title, still resonates today: love isn’t tidy. Modern dating, much like Wharton’s gilded New York, is a chaotic mix of shifting rules, murky desires, and occasionally bewildering options. But here’s what I’ve learned: you don’t need all the answers to move forward. You just need enough courage to let go of what no longer serves you—and step closer to what does.

Eleanor Olenska doesn’t “win” in the traditional sense of romance, but she emerges as a glowing reminder of integrity: a woman who refuses to be reduced, silenced, or boxed in by anyone’s expectations. And maybe that’s what I needed most when I picked up Wharton’s novel in college—permission to live and love authentically, messily, on my own terms.

So here’s my parting advice, distilled between musings of 1870s opera halls and contemporary lobster bakes: trust the quiet moments of clarity. Ignore the peanut gallery—be it nosy relatives or the Instagram algorithm. Decide for yourself what adds joy and meaning to your relationships. And if you ever feel stuck, channel your inner Olenska and don’t apologize for craving a life deeper, wilder, and more layered than even the Northeast’s foggiest sea cliffs.