It’s just like, what the fuck.

I’m a good, happy person who lives my life in a good, happy way. And then this guy comes along. And he’s like hey, can I share that with you? Can I come into your happy life? So you hum and hah for a while, acting cautiously and carefully and suddenly you feel yourself opening up and you’re like sure. That sounds really nice. Come on in.

So you let them. And it’s wonderful.

But suddenly they leave.

And you’re just standing there, alone and baffled and not understanding what went wrong. So then you’re the one who has to mend your heart. And keep busy. And tell yourself that everything happens for a reason. And work out and drink bottles with the girls and convince yourself that this is for the best. And meanwhile, they’re off without a care in the world. And it’s like, what the fuck. YOU’RE the one who asked to be a part of this. So I let you. And then you decided to change your mind. You’re the good one. But you don’t get to win.

You lose again and again. You lose so many times that you have mastered the art of picking up the pieces. You know what order the emotions are going to come. You feel them, and you own them, and you let yourself splurge on a new jacket because it genuinely made you feel happy. And then that day comes when something happens and you feel yourself laughing, free and genuine, and you know there is an end in sight. This moment, when you feel that laugh bursting out of you, is when you know you can pick up, and you will move on.

So you do. You stop dreading lying in bed at night. You know you won’t miss them anymore, and you know sleep will come. You start buying clothes out of necessity and rather than therapy shopping. You make plans and paint your nails. Maybe you go on a date and maybe it’s awful and you’ll come home and cry through a Kleenex or two because you wish it was them you were going on dates with instead of this loser. Maybe you won’t date, and you’ll simply embrace your sweats because that’s what makes you happiest.

And regardless of how we’ve picked up the pieces, the fact is, we did. We became stronger and better and it didn’t taint our perspective on love or life in any way. It simply made us realize that we are extraordinary, and it makes sense that we’ll all take our own bumpy path to find our equally extraordinary match.

And maybe we meet the people we meet so we can go through the motions of picking up the pieces. So that we can start writing again. So that we can appreciate the friendships we have and join that volleyball team because we have the time and freedom to do so. We take a class, because we’ve always wanted to learn about that but simply never found the time. We fall even more in love with ourselves.

And sure, we know that we have our flaws.

I mean, I have a lot. I highly doubt I get enough protein but have yet to do anything about it. I never have the right shoes to wear and I honestly don’t know what continent Turkey is a part of. The only wooden spoon in my kitchen drawer is one I happened to find on the floor of a bar. This is genuinely disgusting, and I know that.

But I love myself. I am extraordinary. And I’m so thankful for all those times I’ve had the opportunity to pick up the pieces and figure that out.

Rejection sucks. It absolutely fucking sucks. But perhaps it’s one of those things we need in order to fully understand that we are, in fact, insanely out of this world unstoppably extraordinary.