The Longing I Wasn’t Allowed

I had planned a really cute self-love day in town — the kind of day I prescribe myself when things feel too heavy to carry. My plan was simple: my favorite breakfast, a massage, a tarot reading, and beach time. The perfect “I’m single and trying to enjoy this thing” kind of day.

It had been a rough week. A few rough months, actually.

But breakfast was incredible — buttery, warm and comforting. I was especially looking forward to the massage. The therapist was skilled. As her hands began working through the knots in my back, I wasn’t surprised by the tension she found — especially on my right side. I knew exactly where that came from.

Then I turned around, and her hands moved to my chest. The contraction there felt sharper, deeper. I know that place well. That’s grief. I didn’t need to be told.

My heart had been clenched for days. I’d been navigating some painful losses, and while I wasn’t expecting the massage to fix it, I had hoped it might bring some ease. A little exhale. A little softness back into my body.

When the session ended, she offered me a cup of tea. I accepted, grateful. But to my surprise, instead of leaving, she sat beside me.

“You have a lot of tension on your right side — that’s your masculine,” she said, her voice lowering as if revealing a secret. “And in your chest... your soul is aching.”

I nodded, still warm from the massage. I thanked and shared that I had just ended a relationship-ish thing. Nothing really meaningful or important. But I felt tired because finding lasting love has been… really hard for me.

“Well,” she said brightly, “I think you should love yourself more. Pamper yourself. Play more, enjoy life — and you’ll attract the partner of your dreams once you love yourself and learn to be on your own.” She went on for a couple of minutes.

It was totally unsolicited advice, and it didn't land well.

The way she said it made me feel like I had done something wrong. Like I was too sad, too stuck.

The exact thing I was trying to relieve with this day had somehow been made heavier.

I tried to shake it off and focus on my next session. I had also booked a tarot reading. My spectacular tarotist was fully booked. So, I asked around and ended up with a recommendation for a really sweet, very young girl.

I’ve studied tarot, and I’m pretty intuitive. I could tell the spread was incredibly accurate — a mirror of what had just happened in my life, and a glimpse of what might come next.

But her interpretation felt plain and basic. She didn’t seem to have the depth to walk me through what the cards were really saying.

A little frustrated, I decided to cut it short. No more questions. No more spiritual pep talks. I figured it would be more productive to crawl into my bed and cry, because somewhere between the Lovers card in the future and the Emperor as an obstacle, I had started feeling painfully single instead of empowered.

“There’s hope,” she offered with a soft smile. “The more you anchor in self-love and emotional security, the more likely you are to experience a love that actually works. Learn to enjoy your company and you will find love.”

It sounded like something she’d heard on an Instagram reel. And it felt like she threw the Three of Swords right in my face — that card of heartbreak, with a heart stabbed by three blades. 

I left the session feeling extremely uncomfortable. This was the second time that day. I was officially pissed. I had planned this day to feel nourished. And somehow, it was making me feel worse.

Before I start hyperventilating again:

Can someone please explain to me where this idea comes from — that all pain can be solved with self-love?

Honestly, I would’ve preferred if the massage therapist just told me to see a doctor. That the tension in my body was intense, that it might take months of Pilates and yoga to soften. I would’ve respected that. 

And the tarot reader? I would’ve felt better if she’d just pulled The Tower and told me this was the end of times — at least that would’ve felt honest.

But self-love? Really?

Do they genuinely believe that self-love could cure the pain I was carrying? 

Not because I left another relationship — but because I’ve tried. I’ve tried over 50 times. I’ve opened, I’ve hoped, I’ve done the work. And still, it keeps slipping through my fingers like some elusive dream that appears, stays for a moment, then disappears again.

I just wanted to scream:

I’m done with this bullshit self-love narrative. I have loved myself enough. I love myself deeply, passionately, even erotically. And I do enjoy living on my own and am one o the most epic singles I've met. Why is it so hard for people to get that sometimes the love I need isn’t inside me? Sometimes, I need someone to love me back. And I would like a partner not because I don't enjoy myself, but because sometimes I want to share stuff.

And no, I know my friends, my family, and my dog love me and that I'm not alone—but some days, I just want a partner who chooses me. Like my married friends have.

And there is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting that.

This doesn’t mean I don’t love myself, or don't know how to live on my own. It means I’ve walked a long, hard road in love—maybe harder than most.

I’ve smiled through heartbreak, nodded at advice I didn’t want to hear, journaled when I wanted to scream, lit candles instead of flipping tables, and kept dating when every part of me wanted to give up.

But that day? I just didn’t want to do it anymore.

Stop. Enough. I’m tired.

Can we just all accept my real human suffering without needing to wrap it in a neat little bow of self-improvement? 

Can I just be held in peace and feel the confusion of the Wheel of Fortune and the Emperor being so elusive?

Can we allow my contractions to simply exist and massage them? 

Can we hold my pain without needing to transmute it into a breakthrough or a lesson?

Can you please stop shaming me for my heartbreak, as if I haven’t healed enough to be worthy of love?

Not all pain is a growth opportunity.

Not all love can be substituted with a better morning routine or an epic trip with you BFF.

I’m almost 51, and I’ve shattered social taboos as if my life depended on it—holding leadership roles as a woman in a male-dominated industry twenty-five years ago; questioning religious norms as a girl raised in an Irish Catholic school; breaking cultural molds by earning more than most of my partners and being the provider; choosing not to have kids, owning that choice; and diving deep into sexual taboos, exploring my own sexuality and guiding others as a tantric teacher. I identify as a witch!!! 

I’ve walked through fire and burned every script they tried to write for me. Yet, the one thing this system of healers, therapists, and judgment hasn’t forgiven me for is simply wanting to be in a relationship.

So, I can be as loud, angry, sexual, successful, polytheist, childless, even curse humanity—and eventually, people step back.

But longing? Needing love? That’s the one they won’t let me have without shame or without making me feel that there is something wrong with me. 

 It’s not my power they’re questioning—it’s my yearning. Why?

I wonder — if someone walked into one of those therapists' offices with a different kind of longing… Let’s say they wanted to get pregnant and it just wasn’t happening. Or they had a chronic illness no treatment could touch. Or they were drowning in debt no matter how hard they worked. Or they still couldn’t breathe right after losing someone they loved. Would the prescription still be self-love? Learn how to be on your own?

Would they say, “Just love yourself until you no longer want a child”? “Learn to be on your own until your disease goes into remission”? “Learn to enjoy the feeling of scarcity, and abundance will follow”?

So why is it okay to say that to someone who longs for love?

When pain is socially acceptable—illness, infertility, financial collapse—we offer empathy, complexity, nuance.

But when the pain is relational, when it’s about heartbreak and longing and the need to be met… That’s when they slap on the sticker: “This is your fault. You just don’t love yourself enough. You just don't know how to live on your own.”  Pay me. Shut up. Go back to your room. Crawl into bed and self-love yourself until you no longer need another human being.

This is the price we pay for the ache of connection. 

We’re told it’s shameful.

We’re told it’s desperate.

We’re told it means we’re not healed.

The truth is life just doesn’t always give us what we long for. And that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with us.

I’m done. Done with self-proclaimed gurus and therapists who think they know better than me what I need, or who I am. I trusted you. And to be honest, you should be doing way better than this. If you are so intuitive and enlightened as your fees suggest, how could you miss the part that hurts the most? How could you really not understand?

I expected more. I deserved more.

I love myself enough to honor that I have a yearning for connection.

I love myself enough to say out loud that I want to be chosen — and not let anyone shame me for that.

I love myself enough to know that not being chosen doesn't means I need to work on something.

I love myself enough to craft a soft day when I’m hurting. 

I love myself enough to sit with my ache without trying to fix it. 

I love myself enough to keep showing up in love — even with the fear, even with the bruises. 

I love myself enough to say: this has been hard. This has been painful. 

I love myself enough to know I did nothing to deserve this pain. 

I love myself enough to find a masseur who doesn’t pretend to be my therapist. 

I love myself enough to buy my own tarot deck and trust my own wisdom.

Because real self-love isn’t about denying or fixing pain.

It’s about loving the self who is grieving, aching, struggling and yearning.