What do you do when your whole life goes up in metaphorical flames? That was the question I found myself asking one August afternoon, sweating into a cheap camp chair outside a pizza joint in Missoula, Montana. I was 25, fresh out of grad school, and wallowing in the kind of misery that only comes from your first big, public failure: I had just bombed a long shot at love—and the embarrassment was crisping my ego more thoroughly than the small-town sunburn flaring on my cheeks.

Let’s rewind.

The (Unrealistic) Dream

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a sucker for big declarations and sweeping romance. I blame growing up in Coeur d’Alene, where the sunsets across the lake are so dramatic they look Photoshopped. It’s the kind of place that inspires grandiose ideas about love—even if most of those ideas come straight out of movies like The Notebook. (Thanks, Nicholas Sparks. Totally not an unrealistic bar to set in rural Idaho.) So, when I met “Cal” (not his real name!) during my second year of grad school, I was already halfway into a fantasy.

He was a poet. He wore earth-toned cardigans and quoted Rilke without sounding pretentious. I mean, come on. Our first real conversation happened during a field trip to the Oregon coast, where the two of us wandered ahead of the group and ended up getting lost in a fog so dense it felt staged. Like the West Coast version of Heathcliff wandering the moors.

By the time we made our way back—soaked, shivering, and laughing—I was hopelessly smitten. Cal did what all good poets do: He made the ordinary seem magical. He talked about the Pacific Northwest’s temperamental weather like it was an emotional being. He claimed to “hate” texting but somehow made three-sentence-long texts feel profound. And I? I fell for it. Hard.

The (Spectacularly Cringey) Crash

Fast forward to late summer—the air in Missoula sticky with wildfire haze, the kind of heat that makes you think irrational thoughts. Cal had graduated, and I was staying behind for another year of work. We’d been dating for eight glorious, melodramatic months when he announced he’d taken a job in Seattle. At first, I was optimistic. Long-distance relationships are hard, sure, but hadn’t I read enough self-help articles to make this work? (Answer: No. Definitely not.)

But then I got The Idea. You know the one I mean—the kind that comes at exactly the wrong time from exactly the worst part of your brain. I decided I’d surprise him in Seattle. My plan was as naïve as it was cinematic: I’d show up unannounced (red flag number one), bring homemade peach hand pies from a recipe he mentioned liking (cute, right?), and declare that I was ready to talk about “our future.” Somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice questioned whether Cal had explicitly invited this gesture. I ignored it.

Spoiler alert: It didn’t go well.

When Cal opened the door to his new shared flat, his face shifted from surprise to confusion to (and this is the worst part) mild irritation. He let me in, but the vibe was immediately off-kilter: his roommates were home, and none of them seemed aware I existed. Over the next hour, I quickly learned three things: 1. Cal was not—decidedly not—ready to have “the future conversation.” 2. My peach hand pies, while tasty, had been crushed to near-pancake status in my tote bag. 3. I had grossly misread the intimacy level of our relationship.

Let me tell you: there’s nothing more humbling than realizing mid-sentence—while holding a mushy bag of baked goods—that you’ve romanticized someone into a role they never auditioned for.

The Aftermath

The ride home to Missoula was brutal. Seven hours, three gas station snack stops, and one increasingly unstable Spotify playlist of sad acoustic music. I replayed every moment of that visit with the kind of brutal thoroughness usually reserved for true crime podcasts.

What had I been thinking? Clearly, I hadn’t. I’d been acting out some misguided cinematic fantasy rooted in my love of grand gestures and nature-inspired metaphors. I mean, sure, if our story had been a Hollywood script, my surprise visit would’ve worked perfectly. But in real life, it turns out that showing up unannounced is more stalker-y than swoony. Who knew? (Rhetorical question. Everyone knew. Except me.)

I spent that fall licking my wounds, sidestepping Cal’s occasional texts, and rationing my emotional breakdowns to every other Thursday. But you know what? Something beautiful happened during that time, too. For the first time in years, I had to sit with myself—all my flaws, my insecurities, my tendency to over-romanticize people—and figure out where I’d gone wrong. And slowly—but surely—I started to see the heartbreak for what it really was: a painful but necessary reality check.

What I Learned (the Hard Way)

If you’d told me then that this particular failure would shape me in the long run, I would’ve rolled my puffy, post-cry eyes at you. But eight years later, I can genuinely say that getting romantically shut down in Seattle taught me lessons I didn’t know I needed about relationships—and about myself. Here are a few:

  • Don’t mistake potential for reality. Falling for someone’s “potential” is like committing to a 12-point renovation project on a house you can’t afford. Because who are you falling for—the person they are, or the one you imagine them to be? Trust me: it’s always better to meet people where they’re at, not where you wish them to be.

  • Grand gestures are overrated. Sure, a spontaneous road trip sounds cute in theory…but communication is the magic ingredient that actually sustains relationships. If you’re making any big move—whether it’s a surprise dinner or a cross-state visit—ask yourself if you’re doing it for them or for your own need to feel like the “romantic lead” in some unwritten romcom.

  • Failure is better than regret. Did my big, sweeping gesture totally flop? You betcha. Do I still feel a tiny pang of secondhand embarrassment when telling this story? Absolutely. But am I glad I put myself out there instead of holding back out of fear? Without a doubt. Failure sucked…but it also made me bold in ways I might never have been otherwise.

Wrapping It Up

Here’s the thing about failure: it doesn’t mean you’re broken, dramatic, or beyond repair. It just means you’re human. My first big failure in love didn’t just teach me resilience; it made me more compassionate toward myself and the people I date now. Love—like Idaho summers—can be unpredictable, intense, and disarmingly beautiful. You don’t have to get it perfect every time. In fact, sometimes the messy attempts are the ones that teach you the most about what you truly need and what you have to offer.

And next time? I’ll save the hand pies for a second date.