The Story of Us

The love that shaped me...

Dec 01, 2025

“I used to think one day we’d tell the story of us
How we met and the sparks flew instantly
And people would say, ‘They’re the lucky ones…’”
- Taylor Swift, “The Story of Us”

Eight years ago, I met the love of my life.

“Met” isn’t the right word here. In truth, we’ve known each other since we were ten years old when the Universe threw us together in the same fourth grade classroom. We had an amazing teacher that year who taught us about the stock market and how to play chess, helped me write and print my first newsletter, and got us started early in entrepreneurship with our own school store. I can see shades of these experiences in our lives now—his and mine. In who we are, in shared interests, in how we used to spend our time together…

Funny, how things shape us.

After we moved on from that class, I didn’t see him again. We still went to the same school, graduated with the same class, even went to colleges only thirty minutes apart.

But we were walking different paths, and we left each other’s worlds.

For me, it was like there’s a void there—like when you try to pull forward a memory, and there’s nothing. Did we even pass each other in the halls? Sit near each other at pep rallies? Stand near each other in line in the school cafeteria? I don’t know; I never noticed. He told me once that he remembers seeing me in the back of the auditorium where I stood as part of my job on the sound crew. I wonder about that. I wonder what he saw. Wonder what life would have been like if I’d looked up and caught his eye.

If we’d so much as said hello again.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know him or couldn’t remember him or wouldn’t speak to him—it was like I was blocked from even seeing him again. Like he was always in one school hallway and I was always navigating another, still circulating the same building and orbiting each other’s worlds, but never close enough.

The sun and the moon—only coming close on those rare, cosmic occasions.

I don’t know, maybe the Universe had other plans. Or maybe it just wasn’t time for us back then. I used to dream about him, though. I don’t know if I ever told him that. Through the years, he would pop into my dreams—visceral dreams that felt more real than real life, and I’d wake up wondering why, after all that time, I was still thinking of him.

Sometimes I wish it was different. I think about all that lost time—a wound woven around regret that has taken years to heal and accept. Maybe our lives would have been different had we known each other better then…

But maybe we needed to go our separate ways to become who we were when we met again, nearly twenty years later.

I didn’t want to love him. We’d met for coffee once a year earlier, and when we agreed to meet again after continuing to converse only through social media, my best friend asked if it was a date, and I insisted we were just two former classmates catching up. I remember looking at his picture after that night and saying to God, “Him?! Are you fucking for real right now? It’s him?”

This man who was a boy that I’ve known since childhood—this is the person I’ve unconsciously denied other relationships for, who I’m finding myself compatible with on every single level, who is nothing like I thought I wanted but everything my heart wished for? Out of all the people in the world, this is the one that feels like home, and here he is a half a mile from home?

The Universe really does have a sense of humor…

But also a sense of benevolence. Because after twenty years, we seemed to have a second chance. And I didn’t want to waste it.

Except, it wasn’t at all like I imagined it would be. Because when we met again, it also began a spiritual journey that led us into the deepest love and the darkest nights of the soul, facing ourselves by facing each other and going through painful growth cycles that eventually turned into a breakup that almost broke me and three years of more healing and more growth in the silent shadow of each other’s presence.

Still, on the other side of it now, I wouldn’t change a thing for how it changed me.

“Who can say if I’ve been changed for the better?
I do believe I have been changed for the better.
And because I knew you, I have been changed
For good.”
- Wicked, “For Good”

It felt like a divorce and a death all at once… I was grieving the loss of him, of the family we’d created, and of a dream that had been born inside me when me met all at once. And still, he was there—having been part of my life and forever etched into the rhythm of my soul.

That’s what it is to love someone and to lose them—whether in life or passing, they’re still in every memory, in every heartbeat.

We were in each other’s lives for five years, close in ways that didn’t fit the label of friendship yet never stepping fully into a relationship, either—devoted, yet unanchored. It all happened so fast, taking perhaps both of us by surprise, and we didn’t have a stable foundation beneath us.

But what is a foundation when souls recognize each other? I didn’t want to logic this away, didn’t want to shut down my heart or play any game. I just wanted to love and keep my heart open and let it unfold. Surprisingly, we kept growing closer, and no matter how I did try to hold myself back as I let him lead the connection, no matter how I tried to give space and distance when it seemed to be wanted, the Universe kept throwing us together in crazy ways.

It was my heart that remembered him—not from when we were ten years old, but as something sacred. Something true. Something I’d been waiting for without knowing what—or who—I was waiting for. I loved him without knowing why or how. And then, as we got to know each other better—as I grew and connected more deeply to myself—I loved him not just for the soul but the person he was, and who we were together.

He used to say to me, “Love yourself, Susan,” when I would express my love to him. But I knew I loved him because I loved myself, not the other way around. Because I loved myself, I allowed my heart to open. Because I loved myself, I silenced the anxious mind that had been overly-active with any other man. Because I loved myself, I could let love in.

Eight years ago, I met the love of my life.

I don’t know if I was ever meant to be his.

But I also know from our time together—and then our time apart—that I don’t have to be.

I can love him just the same.

We’re back in communication. I’m different. He’s different. It all feels so beautifully different—like the Universe has given us yet another chance without the pains of spiritual awakening and the confusion of instant soul recognition. We can build the trust that, beneath the surface has always been there but it’s taken our minds—so scarred by our individual life experiences—some time to catch up. We can lay a foundation that is stable and secure and won’t fall apart or break away. We can accept and honor each other as we are—not who we were or who we think the other should be.

We can just enjoy each other’s friendship.

And that can be enough.

That’s how I know it’s real for me. Because I can strip away the journey and the labels and the soul-recognition and see both the boy and the man and love him there.

And it’s scary. Terrifying, even. It’s scary to love with such depth, and even scarier to receive that love. But that’s also how I know it’s real. Because I’ve spent time in the silence of uncertainty, and still he was there in my heart.

I’ve spent the majority of my life single, and it hasn’t mattered because I’m fulfilled in so many ways. I have incredible friends who, even though they’re married with kids, never fail to include me either as a family or one-on-one. It helps that I’ve known them for half of my life. It helps that they’re my best friends.

I have a close-knit family. I have animals I adore and who unconditionally love me. I have work that is the most satisfying and joyful I’ve ever experienced, with successes ranging from awards and accolades for my books to emails from clients sharing how their life has changed for the better along their journey. I have a strong personal relationship with God, and I have a sacred and fertile inner world.

I’m blessed, and I know it.

I’m loved, and I know it.

Still, I desire a relationship in my life. I want to have that experience.

I love romance—that beautiful expression of affection and love. I’m someone who loves the tender moments of courtship—the reaching for a hand, the stroke of an arm, the sudden, passionate kiss. Grand and public declarations are repulsive, but it’s the thoughtfulness, the consistent communication, the wanting to spend quality time together that’s romance for me.

It’s the magic of the little moments that have always meant the world.

I want that. It’s hard to admit this—it feels so vulnerable to admit this—because I’ve had to deny that within myself for so long, and it feels like I’ve been starved for that affection, even as I’ve learned to give it all to myself. Hyper-independent and scarred from some of my own experiences with love, I’ve had to learn to support myself, to honor myself, to validate myself, and to love myself. But now I want to experience the adventure of love and relationship with someone. I want that closeness and intimacy and connection.

When we’re loved well, powerful things happen. That’s what relationship is for—to uplift and support and grow together. To heal the parts of ourselves that felt unlovable in the presence of love, not the absence of it.

I’ve spent the past eight years learning more about myself than I ever thought possible. I learned how to love myself so deeply, no one’s opinion of me has precedence over my own. I learned to believe in myself even in the face of others cutting me down. I learned to honor myself, remember my worth. I learned to trust in my own authority, to speak my truth and express myself even if it means discomfort and conflict. I learned to never abandon myself—my heart—for the sake of others again.

I learned that I matter, too.

These lessons were hard-learned. They were learned through contrast, and now I don’t want to experience pain anymore, so let me find my way to peace. I don’t want to feel like I’m begging for attention, starving for affection, so let me offer that to myself. I don’t want to question if I matter to someone, so let me choose myself first.

They were all the lessons I needed to learn to anchor so fully into connecting with and knowing myself.

And now…

I want to learn through love.

I’m ready to see the other reflection—the light side of me and not just the shadow. I want to see the love I have inside reflected back without hesitation—with pure devotion, and affection, and a fearless claim.

I love the lighthearted, goofy, and silly side of me I’ve found again, and I want to know that my person doesn’t expect perfection but loves me flaws and all. I love to feel safe and secure wrapped inside someone’s arms that both comfort and protect—as if they know I’m strong, but there in that embrace I can let myself go, let myself be, and they’ll hold me steady until I remember myself again. I love the kisses and cuddles and the unabashed desire to want to be close—I want to spend our time together because it’s always better together.

And yes, being so independent I want to have our space, too. But I love hearing his voice—and I want him to want to hear mine—to share all about our day and looking forward to seeing each other again.

I don’t want to feel ashamed of the closeness I want.

Maybe someday I’ll meet someone who’ll offer that companionship, and I’ll love them deeply, and my heart will be devoted to them—because when I love, I love deeply and devotedly.

But sometimes I wonder if the most sacred part of my love story has already happened. Maybe it just doesn’t look like I thought it would. Maybe it wasn’t the full relationship that I’d wanted it to be, but there was love.

My god, there was love.

And that love won’t end, even as my life reshapes itself and a new chapter begins.

Whatever is being written there.