You can't please them into loving you

Holding on to vulnerability in the age of nonchalance

Lovers and Lautrec by Joseph Lorusso

As a child, I had my own way of doing things. I didn’t enjoy playing tag or competitive games, nor did I like running around chasing others. I preferred playing house or putting on little plays. But staying true to what I wanted wasn’t easy. Even in childhood, social hierarchies take shape—some kids set the rules, others follow them, and those who refuse to play along often find themselves on the margins. I spent many recesses alone, drawing, writing in a notebook, or reading. Of course, I felt lonely at times, but I also cherished my inner world. If belonging meant letting go of what I truly enjoyed, I chose the sidelines.

Staying on the edge came with a great sense of loneliness, and I still longed to be chosen. I wanted to be seen, I wanted someone to notice me, to find value in the things I was doing, to invite me in without asking me to change. Over time, being left out ingrained a belief in me: that belonging wasn’t something that happened naturally for me, it was something I had to work for.

Years later, even when I had friends, I often found myself confused by people’s behavior. I was never alone in high school, yet there was a period when I dreaded the weekends. Everyone seemed to have their own group, and I felt stuck on my own. The people I spent the day with—hanging out between classes, sharing laughs—never invited me to their plans outside of school. I thought that just by being myself, by being kind, those friendships would deepen and, eventually, I would be included. But that never happened.

Along the way, I made gestures toward people I considered friends that were never reciprocated. I remember giving someone a small birthday gift, only to later realize I hadn’t even been considered for their celebration. My instinct to show care through 'acts of service' felt natural to me, but when it wasn’t returned, it became a source of deep disappointment.

As I grew older, it stopped being about playground games and simple friendship dynamics. Life felt like a game, and I started to believe that others had discovered a shortcut, that they knew something I didn’t. It didn’t matter if they were mean or flawed (because we all are); they seemed to get chosen just as they were. Meanwhile, I kept working on myself, trying to chase an unattainable ideal of perfection. Ironically, this only made me more miserable, because I felt I deserved things that I wasn’t getting.

The sooner you realize that life doesn’t owe you anything and that it's not always fair, the better. But still, knowing this was one thing; living it was another.

This could only get worse throwing love into the equation. I once developed a huge crush on a boy. When I first started liking him he wasn’t available, so all I could do was sit with my feelings. I kept my distance but I did a lot of things to show him how I cared. It was very frustrating, I remember reading about limerence, but still, I was head over heels but completely hopeless. Time passed and eventually we got together. It felt like Snow on the Beach, as cruel as it may sound in my mind the sound of “you wanting me, tonight feels impossible” kept replaying. I had read many stories to know this wouldn’t end well for me but I wanted to enjoy it while it lasted, so I gave my all to it.

It felt contradictory, when I, a self-proclaimed feminist since age fifteen, was enjoying playing houses for him. I’d wake up before him, make breakfast, I even tidy his dishwasher once. He never asked me to do any of this, but it felt natural. When had acts of service become my love language? It went beyond that. It was the belief, ingrained in me for years, that care could earn love. That effort would make me indispensable. And probably, on some level, the quiet influcence of gender conditioning was at play too—the idea that nurturing, tending, giving, was a woman’s way of securing her place in someone's life.

But then, I had never shown myself to anyone on such a deep, unguarded level. I didn’t know how to do things the other way, how to be there but not too deeply. But in those moments, it felt like we were in sync, as if we were both experiencing something meaningful together, even when we were apart. The connection wasn’t just about grand gestures but the quiet, everyday exchanges—the kind that made me feel truly seen. It was enough to be together, to simply exist in each other’s lives, even if the lines were never clearly drawn. Yet, as much as I felt that closeness, there was always this underlying hesitation. Whenever I wanted to have a conversation he freaked out, afraid of labeling us or committing. It left me feeling helpless, as the version of him I was seeing didn't match the moments we shared or the way he acted around me.

Eventually, when things ended, it really hit me: you can’t earn someone’s love by being the best partner, by trying to do everything right. You can’t win them over with your endless giving. If love isn’t there, no amount of effort will make it appear.

The ones who love you won’t do it because you are always on time, you never forget important dates, or you are a great lover. They will love you because you are you, and they can’t bear to think of a life without you in it.

The aftermath of that experience wasn’t filled with the clarity these previous lines offer. My mind was filled with a lot of unresolved questions about my unworthiness of love, the ways I hadn’t been enough, the ways I had been too much to put up with…Despite that, I knew my sensitivity and my vulnerability were not things to be ashamed of.

In human relationships it seems like nonchalance has become the norm. You have to appear busy, unavailable, mysterious—leave questions up in the air, unanswered. Take a long time replying to your texts. Don’t show interest too early on. I knew trying to keep up with this was against my caring nature and would only lead me to empty, shallow relationships. I didn’t want any part in it.

I won’t reject my vulnerability, I think that is the real shortcut to connection, and it is what brings us closer to others.

The first time I saw Before sunrise, this quote said by Céline deeply resonated with me. I felt it made sense of the way I had been moving through life. If everything we do in life is a way to be loved a little more, I will try to keep in mind that this is not a merit-based race. If you do something you have to do it wholeheartedly, asking yourself , “Will I care if nothing comes in return?” A part of you will probably care, and that’s okay because we are used to this transactional mindset in relationships. But you have to fall in love with the idea of what those gestures reveal about you and about who you are. As someone once said, in the end, people only remember how you made them feel.

I’ve been on a quest to focus on the few things I can control—the actions I take each day, the things that fuel my passions, and the values I choose to live by. It’s about grounding myself in the things that matter most, whether that’s creating things, like articles for my Substack, checking in on my friends and trying to make plans every week, or simply finding joy in everyday moments, like having my coffee under the sun on a terrace there’s at my workplace. I’ve wasted so much time (and will waste more) worrying about what’s missing, and now I want to actively embrace what’s already present in my life and give more to it.

We often get caught up in the illusion that love, happiness, or success is something we must earn or chase. But no matter how much effort we put into pursuing them, they don’t always come on our terms. It’s natural to pursue what we want in different ways, but I’ve learned that “chasing” them in a desperate or forced way can only lead to frustration. The real freedom comes when we realize we don’t need to prove anything. All we can do is show up as ourselves and trust that in doing so, we’ll find meaning in our lives—not because someone else gives it to us, but because we create it from within.