Raised on Rom-Coms: Unlearning the Modern Love Story
I have always loved love. As a teen, I made weekly trips to the movie rental store (yes, they once existed!) after soccer practice on Friday nights, poring over which romantic comedy would sweep me away next. You've Got Mail. Bridget Jones's Diary. 10 Things I Hate About You. Glossy boxes, endless potential.
Cuddled up in flannel pajamas on the floor of my best friend's playroom, in the waning days of summer before the start of 6th grade, we watched Clueless silent and wide-eyed as the story unfolded. Cher was gorgeous and popular; Josh was consistent, but not at all her type. After her near-death experience at the mall, she finally saw the light and allowed herself to fall in love with the one who had been right in front of her all along. That kiss at the top of the stairs was, in my mind, everything. What dreams were made of.
As time passed, my ideas about love were formed. A grand gesture automatically fixes all problems. Persistence is always romantic. Just because he isn't always kind doesn't mean he won't one day fall madly in love with you. If you're meant to be, it will all work out. Opposites attract. Emotional intensity equals depth of love.
She's All That made a similarly deep impression. A popular jock bets his friends he can transform a nerdy outsider into prom queen. His unwavering attention felt intoxicating; her initial resistance felt empowering. Somewhere along the way, messages about desirability, social worth, and reinventing yourself in the name of love lodged themselves quietly into my developing understanding of romance.
Fast forward to high school and my first encounters with real relationships. I was drawn, predictably, to boys who were cute but also mysterious and unavailable, the ones who kept you guessing. I was fueled by longing, uncertainty, drama, and the desire to be chosen. After a few haphazard forays with upperclassmen (think late-night AOL instant messages exchanged in secret, followed by being completely ignored in real life), I decided to try dating someone my own age. My first real boyfriend was sweet and consistent. There was no guessing about his feelings, and while I was flattered at first, it quickly felt boring and predictable. The more certain I was of his feelings, the more repelled I became.
Then I fell for someone completely off limits, my best friend's (Clueless in pajamas bestie) ex-boyfriend. Forbidden love, straight out of a movie. The next three years were the kind of dramatic that movies are made of, though this story never arrived at a happy ending. Looking back, that makes sense. I wasn't just dating a person; I was dating an idea of what love was supposed to feel like: unpredictable, exciting, and at times, completely toxic. It left me brokenhearted, disillusioned, and at twenty years old, having lost myself entirely.
Less than a month after that relationship ended, I met my husband at a late-night party in the tiny cabin a friend and I were renting. Things moved fast, and within the first month I knew we would end up together. Almost like a movie. Almost. Early on, he told me he would "never run after me in the rain." At the time, it felt like a rejection of the love story I thought I wanted. Twenty years later, I see it differently. He wasn't promising drama. He was promising something steadier.
Through my work as a couples therapist, I have sat with people navigating all kinds of idealized versions of romance. Those who feel something must be seriously wrong because they no longer feel the intensity of the early days. Couples who live in a constant state of conflict because at least it feels like something. People carrying the same assumptions I once held, that grand gestures, certainty, and ease are the true markers of love. None of them arrived in their relationships from nowhere. They were shaped long before they ever fell in love with a real person, by the same glossy stories that suggested love should be effortless, intuitive, and always intense. And then they find themselves trying to measure a living relationship against something that was never built to hold its weight.
I still know the girl on the playroom floor, dreaming of love and forever. She is in all of us, because the desire to love and be loved is one of the most human things there is.
What she didn't know was that the kiss, the airport chase, and the grand gesture are not the conclusion of a love story, but the opening scene. That the real work begins when the novelty wears off. That intimacy is built through a thousand ordinary moments of choosing, repairing, forgiving, and beginning again. And that the most meaningful chapters of her own love story would unfold long after the credits rolled.