It started with a breakup. Doesn’t it always? The kind where you stare at your ceiling at 2 a.m., wondering how you missed the red flags that, in hindsight, were essentially a parade. It was my post-heartbreak phase—a mix of introspection, overanalyzing text messages, and wallowing in an embarrassing amount of romantic comedies (yes, Notting Hill holds up, thank you very much). Somewhere between questioning my life decisions and binging Cadbury Dairy Milk bars, a friend handed me a copy of Alain de Botton’s The Course of Love.
“This will mess you up—in a good way,” she’d said with a knowing smirk. And, wow, was she right.
Chapter 1: Love Is Not a Rom-Com
The first thing The Course of Love taught me was that love is messy. Like, “forgot chicken in the fridge for three weeks” messy. And not the glossy, Ryan Gosling-building-a-house-for-Rachel-McAdams kind, either. This book rewired my brain faster than my parents figuring out TikTok trends.
De Botton’s central argument is this: We’ve been culturally conditioned to think of love as a destination, as if the fairy tale stops rolling after the credits. Boy meets girl (or whoever meets whomever), sparks fly, everything aligns, happy ending achieved. But love isn’t just discovering someone’s quirks in that cute, early-stage honeymoon haze; it’s surviving the “why-does-this-person-use-so-many-exclamation-points-in-their-texts” phase, too.
One moment in the book stuck like gum on the bottom of my shoe. De Botton describes marriage—or long-term love, if legal paperwork isn’t your thing—as “a skill, not an enthusiasm.” It’s about learning how to fight productively, how to embrace flaws you didn’t notice when their profile pic seduced you, and how to not lose your mind after their third consecutive retelling of that funny parking ticket story.
It made me think back to my ex and me. We were fireworks: dazzling, thrilling, and, unfortunately, unsustainable. Sure, we had passion, but when conflicts arose—small stuff, like how much cilantro belongs in guac—our ability to communicate vanished faster than my motivation at a 6 a.m. spin class. We wanted the love story but ignored the footnotes: teamwork, patience, and, honestly, a tolerance for the weirdness that comes with sharing your life with another person.
Chapter 2: Why Flaws Are Actually Fantastic
Okay, not all flaws. Leaving the toilet seat up nightly isn’t exactly endearing. But de Botton argues that real closeness begins when we accept that no one is perfect—not you, not me, not the hottie who claims their favorite film is Pulp Fiction but somehow hasn’t seen it since 2008. Instead of seeking perfection, he says, aim for compatibility. Look for someone whose flaws you can live with—or even grow to appreciate.
Take me, for example. I have this absurd tendency to narrate everything at the grocery store. “Ooh, artisanal sourdough! That’s fancy,” I’ll announce to nobody in particular while evaluating bread I probably can’t afford. My ex used to roll his eyes at it. But years later, a close friend turned to me mid-shopping trip and said, “You narrate stuff? That’s adorable.” I wanted to marry her on the spot.
The point? We all have quirks that might seem annoying to one person and downright charming to another. Instead of treating dating like a search for Mr./Ms./Mx. Perfect, de Botton suggests flipping the script: Are you prepared to deal with someone who can’t shut up about fantasy football? Or whose “hobby” involves collecting crystals that may or may not work but look kinda cool on shelves?
In dating and relationships, he insists, we thrive when we realize flaws are like houseplants—manageable with proper care and attention.
Chapter 3: What the Movies Never Taught Us
I owe a lot of my relationship ideals to cinema, but, wow, are they flawed. Nobody tells you how unrealistic it is to expect grand gestures during tax season or how deeply unromantic splitting utility bills feels. (Though for the record, the person who remembers to actually pay those bills is the real MVP.)
De Botton wipes out the whole ideal of “The One”—an exhausting concept that’s caused more bed sheet tears than uncooperative fitted sheets. Instead, he introduces a more liberating idea: Good relationships aren’t about finding someone who completes you (cue Jerry Maguire groans); they’re built through shared effort.
A relationship, he says, isn’t supposed to make you flawless or fix every underlying security issue you’ve carried from childhood. It’s more like choosing your favorite song—it’s not perfect, but it speaks to you. And over time, through small, steady actions, love grows deeper than any of those sweeping Instagram-worthy declarations you secretly hope your partner makes. Unless those declarations come with good lighting. Then, sure, repost.
Chapter 4: Practical Takeaways for Real-Life Love
Admittedly, self-improvement books usually make me cringe like a bad first-date karaoke session. But this one? It wasn’t just theory; it had practical wisdom that still guides me today:
- Embrace imperfection early. If you’re picking apart someone’s minor flaws on a third date, ask yourself whether those issues will matter in five years—or if you’re just sabotaging.
- Normalize effort. Real love takes work. Not daily therapy sessions level effort (hopefully), but deliberate actions that show you care—text back thoughtfully, call when you say you will, and, for the love of all things holy, remember anniversaries.
- See arguments as opportunities. De Botton doesn’t frame disagreements as disasters but as moments to understand each other better. Conflict can bring growth if you approach it with, dare I say, maturity.
Chapter 5: A New Kind of Ending
It’s funny—when you read a book at the right time, it can change how you see everything: love, relationships, even yourself. This doesn’t mean I’m a perfect partner now (spoiler alert: still working on that), but it gave me a baseline—a toolkit to navigate connection without falling into fantasy.
Love, I’ve learned, is less about the meet-cute and more about the enduring aftermath. It’s showing up for someone, even when their morning breath smells like death warmed over. It’s patience when you’d rather roll your eyes into the next decade. It’s realizing that the little inconveniences of love are often its most endearing moments.
And while The Course of Love may not have reunited me with my ex or magically solved all my dating woes, it gave me something better: the ambition to forge connections that are deep, messy, flawed—and totally worth it.
Final Thought
If you’re in the weeds of heartbreak or even just trying to unlearn the Hollywood Afterglow Lie™, grab a copy of this book. Your next date—or even your current long-term love—may not necessarily change. But you will. And isn’t that where all good love stories really begin?
