The Secret Battle to Let Go of My Own "Perfect Love" Story

Every good story starts with a little chaos, doesn’t it? Somewhere in the background, there’s a broken plate, a storm rolling in, or an unsent text that feels heavier than it should. Mine? It started with a brown leather couch in my unassuming West Virginia living room—the kind of couch that smells vaguely of damp afternoons and old cologne. I was sprawled out, staring at a blank Word document. The plot of my novel wasn’t cooperating (again), and neither was the one of my actual life.

Here’s the truth: for years, I’d been battling a secret—a weight I clung to like a crate of moonshine hidden in the woods. My struggle wasn’t about heartbreak but something more insidious: the crushing expectation I had built around what love should look like. Worse still, I kept it quiet. After all, who admits they’ve pinned years on a fabricated fairytale?

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

The Blueprint for a Perfect Disaster

Growing up in Appalachia, I learned early on that stories aren’t just idle chatter; they’re the heartbeat of every front porch conversation or late-night bonfire. My grandparents told tales of love etched in the stars—of long glances across church aisles, marriages forged at the town fair. It was all drenched in charm and grit.

So I carried those tales with me, clutching them as tightly as I did my dog-eared copy of The Great Gatsby when life took me to California. But L.A.? Let me tell you, it’s no Charleston, West Virginia. Romance there felt transactional, almost like the avocado toast I kept overpaying for—polished on the outside but hollow at the core. I spent my time defending my small-town roots to strangers at mixers, all while doubling down on my own belief that I deserved love just like the fabled ones I grew up hearing about. You know, the kind where you accidentally lock eyes at a bookstore or someone gets caught in a rainstorm waiting for you.

Spoiler alert: no one gets rain-soaked in Los Angeles.

The longer I waited for that picture-perfect love story, the more disconnected I felt. Real relationships came my way, sure, but I dismissed them like a finicky diner at a buffet. Not enough spark. Too much baggage. Not "storybook" enough. Sometimes, I’d let things linger longer than they should, clinging to people who were wrong for me because I thought I could fix them—another page torn straight from the Appalachian lore of mending what’s broken.

Of course, what I didn’t know then was that I wasn’t living. I was editing, rewriting, cropping out the messy human moments that make relationships worth having in the first place.

Breaking the “Should”

The turning point came after I left Los Angeles and settled into the quiet rhythms of coastal Maine. It’s ironic, really: I moved there to catch my breath only to realize I’d been holding it for years.

One rainy evening (finally, some rain!), I found myself listening to Loretta Lynn’s “Coal Miner’s Daughter” on repeat, sipping Scotch older than my oldest pair of boots. Her voice reminded me—so stubborn and raw—that perfection isn’t a thing worth chasing. Her love stories weren’t perfect; they were complicated, messy, and written in real blood and sweat.

So I asked myself: What if I stopped trying to write love as if it's a masterpiece and just let it be a first draft?

Now, this wasn’t some overnight epiphany. I didn’t toss my rose-colored glasses out the window and emerge a changed man by sunrise. But it was a start. I sat there surrounded by the smell of seawater and slight mildew, promising myself I’d do the hardest thing I’d ever done: unlearn the rules I'd spent my life writing.

Here’s what I discovered during that battle to let go of my secret:

1. Stop Looking for the Grand Gesture

I’ll be honest: I thought love looked like movie montages. But as much as we want that Notebook-style passion, real love isn’t neatly cued to swelling violins. Some of the most meaningful connections in my life have started in the small, quiet moments.

A deep conversation over burnt coffee. Trading jokes about how terrible a first date’s "craft beer flight" was. Complimenting each other on how embarrassingly bad we both were at blueberry picking.

Love doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it’s a whisper in a cluttered kitchen.

2. Nobody Is as “Put Together” as They Seem

This one hit hard. For years, I kept waiting to find someone whose entire life clicked as neatly as a puzzle piece against mine. But here’s the thing about people: we’re all gloriously unfinished.

In Maine, I met someone whose life—on paper—was chaos. Career in flux, family ties messy, barely holding their head above water. But they were good. They listened. They showed up, even when it was inconvenient or uncomfortable.

I learned this: It’s not about waiting for the perfect person; it’s about the one who keeps showing up for you, piece by flawed piece.

3. Quit Comparing and Start Connecting

If I could go back and kick my younger self, I would. Like a fool, I spent years watching Instagram highlight reels of happy couples and thinking, I must be doing something wrong. It took too long to learn that love isn’t measured in filtered kisses and matching Christmas pajamas.

Now, I don’t care about how others define love. I care about whether mine feels real, whether we laugh together till we cry, whether we’re willing to sit in the same room quietly and just wait the world out.

The Truth About Letting Go

I’d like to say I’ve learned to fully embrace the process, but that wouldn’t be honest. Sometimes, the old voice in my head still nags me to find that “storybook love”—the kind where you dash off into the sunset together as fireworks conveniently ignite behind you.

But here’s what letting go of those expectations has given me: freedom. Without the weight of “should” hanging over my head, I’ve found so much more joy in what is. It’s not glamorous, but there’s comfort in knowing that the person sitting across from you just wants to build a little life together, rain-soaked whims and all.

So, for anyone else out there battling in secret, know this: the fight to let go is worth it. Start by cracking open the old stories. Leave room for messiness. Let love look however it arrives—burnt coffee, blueberry stains, and all. Because, as Loretta would tell you, the best things in life are neither perfect nor polished. Instead, they’re rough-edged and real.

And trust me, you wouldn’t have it any other way.