Valentine’s Day has always arrived with a tone that is half celebration, half inventory. Every February, the world seems to ask the same questions: Are you progressing correctly? Are you paired off, promised, planning? The holiday turns intimacy into something public, measured by reservations made in advance, flowers delivered on time, and the unspoken assumption that love should be visible, legible and ideally moving toward something permanent.
For years, I assessed myself against the red roses crowding grocery stores, the engagement rings slipped into champagne glasses, the social media posts that broadcast she said yes! like a chorus. Each image felt like a checkpoint, a reminder of where I was supposed to be and how closely my life should resemble the ones unfolding everywhere else.
In my 30s, Valentine’s Day arrived with a particular kind of anxiety. The stakes felt impossibly high. Friends were getting engaged quickly, being set up with intention, openly talking about husbands and timelines. Dating stopped feeling exploratory and started feeling evaluative. Valentine’s Day became a moment to take inventory: not just of a relationship, but of its future.
Every February, if I was seeing someone, the same questions surfaced. Was this someone I could imagine marrying? Did I want to build a life with him? Could I see him as the father of my children? Valentine’s Day seemed to gather those thoughts and place them gently, but insistently, on the table.
