You Are The Prize

On affairs of the heart

This month in my Psychologies column I wrote about love. I was uncomfortable about it, but because it’s the February issue I thought there might be some kind of expectation to write about hearts and roses. I can’t write about hearts and roses, if that is even what February magazine issues are about, and if that is even what people still aspire to as the pinnacle of romance. I don’t currently live a life of hearts and roses, but sweeping strings and star-strung skies are still so persuasive to me, even if they’re just propelled by a heady combination of escapism and lust. I wrote this in Twelve Moons

‘I wonder why the gentle, inquisitive actions seem to hold less value, though even as this thought passes through my mind I know I can be a sucker for grand gestures. It’s all smoke and mirrors, I know that now, and would pay good money for a decent dose of kindness and calm.’

but the grand gestures still appeal. My friend says I am a romantic to her realist, and she’s right, but why does this feel like a bad thing?

For my column I had to find a way to reframe all of that and write something compelling in 800 words. I thought about the almost six years on my own, and the many years before that when I might as well have been. Those years have not been devoid of love - in many ways they have been suffused with it, heady and intense and full of realisation. I wrote at length, of course about mother-love in my book, and about the gradual process of coming back to myself. In the eighteen months since I sent the final draft of Twelve Moons off to my editor things have moved on. I’m pretty sure I’ve written myself back onto the page, which became something of a mantra for me while I wrote the book, but is it possible I have done more than that? Can I admit to enjoying the biggest love affair of all - the one we have with ourselves?

This is what I decided to write about, and this column seems to have struck a chord with so many readers that I thought I’d interrogate it a bit further - the nitty gritty of learning to love ourself, not the 800 word version. What follows is an illustrated story of a woman trying to find out what love really means.