I Never Needed a Prince, But I Thought I Did

I grew up believing in a story. Not just any story, but the kind of tale that wraps itself around your childhood and whispers sweet nothings into your future dreams. In my family’s version of happily ever after, the defining chapter was always about "The One." Specifically: you find a partner, they complete you, and voilà—life’s messy edges are suddenly smoothed out like a freshly ironed shirt.

For years, I swallowed this happily-ever-after myth like it was gospel truth—you meet your prince, he kisses you fully into yourself, and somehow, your missing pieces fall perfectly into place. But real life, as I’ve learned, doesn’t follow Disney’s script. My prince never showed up on schedule. And I’ve realized, in hindsight, he never needed to.

The Myth of “Completing You”

Looking back, I can pinpoint the root of this family belief: my parents. They had a whirlwind romance, and for as long as I can remember, their relationship was the centerpiece of every family gathering—as steady and reassuring as my mom’s famous empanadas. We all heard the story a hundred times. How papá saw mamá at a university dance in Santiago and told his friends, “That is the woman I’m going to marry.” Two years later, he did just that.

As a child, it felt like undeniable proof that destiny was real and love had a perfect choreography. I clung to this notion growing up, convinced that I, too, would find my dance partner and waltz my way into a meaningful existence.

There was only one problem: by the time I turned 30, my life was definitely meaningful but astonishingly prince-less. The years piled on, the dates blurred together, and still no one swept me off my feet. (To be fair, there was one guy who tripped me on a hike, but that’s another story.) By family standards, this was a catastrophe.

Losing Myself in Pursuit of Someone Else

For years, I carried this myth like luggage—heavy and unwieldy but impossible to leave behind. I dated men who checked all the right boxes on paper, and I avoided asking whether they checked any of the right boxes for me. I romanticized half-hearted connections and ignored flashing neon-red flags, convinced that love would eventually fix…well, everything.

One guy I dated spent six months "deciding" if he liked me because he thought he needed more “emotional clarity.” (Translation: he ghosted me every other Tuesday.) Another was charming in public but frosty behind closed doors, plastering over meaningful conversations with his favorite line: “You think too much.” I hung onto both relationships for far too long, thinking they could still become the perfect pieces to my puzzle.

What I didn’t realize then—and what smacks me over the head now—is that no one was obligated to complete me. That wasn’t their job. Truthfully, I wasn’t even sure who I was asking them to complete because I hadn’t done much exploration of that myself. I had outsourced the work. It wasn’t love that was meant to cure my insecurities; it was me.

Rewriting the Narrative

When I moved to Madrid for my Master’s degree, something shifted. And by “something,” I mean I left my safe little world behind and landed myself in the fiery chaos of solo adulthood. Suddenly, there wasn’t space for the family myth anymore because life was busy being...real.

I was living on a budget balanced more delicately than a tightrope act, working part-time, and eating more tortilla de patatas than any human probably should. I didn’t have time to pine for my mythical Prince Charming. Instead, I got to know someone else: me.

I wandered flea markets on Sundays with friends and collected secondhand books in languages I didn’t yet understand. I took long walks by the Manzanares River after classes, letting the city’s rhythm syncopate my own. Somewhere between studying cultural theory and learning how not to burn croissants in my tiny oven, I began to enjoy my own company.

For the first time, I wasn’t waiting for a fairy tale to start. I was writing my own messy, marvelous story.

Lessons Love Didn’t Teach Me

Here’s where I landed: the family myth wasn’t inherently wrong, it just wasn’t universally true. Yes, my parents found completeness in each other’s partnership—what’s beautiful for them. But for me, completeness meant something else: standing on my own two feet, figuring out who I was outside of romantic expectations, and chasing things that made my heart race—all without waiting for permission from fate.

So what does rewriting your narrative look like? A few discoveries along the way helped me and might help you too:

  1. Be the Main Character
    Prince Charming is irrelevant if your own story isn’t compelling. Ask yourself: what excites me, builds me, and moves me closer to being the person I want to be? Do more of that, starting right now.

  2. You Don’t Need a Mirror
    Stop looking for someone who reflects you. Instead, find what’s dazzling about your edges, your quirks, your relentless ability to roll with life. Learn to be fascinated with yourself.

  3. Partnership Isn’t Salvation
    Let’s retire the idea that relationships are rescue missions. The best partners don’t save you or fix you—they meet you where you already are.

  4. Dream First, Partner Second
    As a famous poet (probably) once said: “Get busy figuring out what you want, and then invite someone along for the ride.” You don’t need to press pause on your dreams while waiting for love to show up. Run toward them now.

Embrace Your “Happily Anyway”

I wish I could’ve gone back and told 20-something Carmen that it’s okay if your life script doesn’t follow a set formula. That love can be an enriching chapter but not necessarily the whole book. And that your worth is not, never was, and never will be tied up in whether someone else notices the sparkle in your soul.

As for me these days? I’m happily single and living in my story, one delicious detail at a time. My family’s myth turned out to be just that—a myth. But in its ashes, I’ve created something infinitely better: a narrative that’s mine, raw and real, from start to finish. Because love, my friends, is not about finding the missing piece. Sometimes, it’s about learning to glow fully on your own.