“You can’t perform your way into being loved. You can only reveal yourself and trust that the right person will love what they find.”
Finding the unmarked door, I stepped into a dimly lit room pulsing with that “Love Jones” energy. Neo-soul played low, red lighting cast shadows across faces, and the bass line vibrated through my chest. This was the kind of place where real conversations happened.
I was nursing a cocktail when he appeared beside me. Dark eyes, easy smile, the kind of presence that makes you sit up straighter. “What are you drinking?”
Within minutes, we’d moved past small talk into the deep stuff. Where we were in our journeys. What our goals were. What we really wanted. The conversation felt adult. Intentional.
When he asked for my number and offered his, my heart did that thing it hadn’t done in years. I walked out of that speakeasy floating.
The next day was Sunday—my reset day. I didn’t expect to hear from him immediately. But by Wednesday, the silence was loud. Time flies when you’re busy helping others, and I’d been busy all week.
I texted him a quick hello, letting him know I’d enjoyed our conversation and looked forward to hearing from him. He never called.
I was baffled. He approached me. He asked for my number. What had I done wrong?
I pulled out my journal and replayed the night frame by frame. What had I asked him? About his career. His family. His dreams for the future. All the right open-ended questions to draw someone out and make them feel seen.
That’s when it hit me.
I’m a high school counselor. I have a master’s degree and years of experience building rapport with teenagers and their families. People tell me they’re naturally drawn to me, that I make them feel safe enough to be vulnerable. It’s my gift.
But on that date, I’d been in counselor mode. I’d been so focused on connecting with him—asking questions, creating safety, facilitating depth—that I’d never stopped to ask myself: Do I even want to connect to him?
I wasn’t being fake. I was being authentically… professional. And that was the problem.
This wasn’t new. I thought back to other dates. The lawyer who talked about his divorce for forty minutes while I nodded empathetically. The teacher who shared his dreams of starting a nonprofit while I asked thoughtful follow-up questions. The musician who opened up about his complicated relationship with his father while I created space for his feelings.
I’d left each date thinking it went well. But I’d never once asked myself: Was I attracted to them? Did their values align with mine? Did I enjoy the conversation, or was I just facilitating it?
I had no idea. Because I was too busy being good at my job.
This worked in my office. It didn’t work on dates. I wasn’t clocking in. I needed to stop leaning into my professional skills and start getting real about what I actually wanted.
I began reading Loving Bravely. Journaling nightly. Listening to Louise Hay. Continuing my yoga practice. I wasn’t being fake on dates, but I didn’t know what I was looking for either.
Once I figured out what I loved about myself, I could articulate what I desired in a partner. A true best friend who would hang out with me, support my dreams, and have dreams of his own. Someone who wouldn’t try to control me or make me lose myself.
I’d been down that path before. I decided I’d rather be single than settle.
So I got to work. Not on finding a man—on finding me.
I took a hard look at my past relationships. What I’d tolerated. What I’d ignored. What I’d given up to keep the peace. It became painfully obvious: I’d been so focused on being chosen that I’d forgotten I was also choosing.
I gave myself grace. I didn’t grow up in a two-parent household, so I had no relationship template to reference. I was figuring out this self-love thing as I lived it, every single day.
It wasn’t easy. But I knew my person wasn’t going to knock on my door while I was busy performing for strangers.
I started dating myself. I didn’t wait to be asked out to get dolled up. I made plans to celebrate my own life.
I stopped accepting last-minute invites. Someone who truly respected me would plan ahead, not assume I was sitting at home waiting to be chosen.
Shifting my mindset from “being chosen” to “choosing” gave me the confidence to ask different questions on dates. What were you listening to in your car? Are you open to marriage? Do you want kids? I didn’t care if they thought I was too direct.
My online profile was honest about what I wanted while still showing my personality—silly, bubbly, compassionate. When a connection moved to a phone call, I’d set the tone: “Hey, we’re both looking for our person. If it doesn’t feel right—for either of us—let’s call it respectfully.”
Most said they were cool with that. Some probably even meant it.
For the first time, I was choosing to use my voice and set boundaries. And as difficult as it was to say “no thank you,” I did it.
I remember one date where we met for drinks after work. I didn’t do dinner dates anymore—no need to be stuck with the wrong person for that long. He was handsome. The conversation was fine. But my gut knew this wasn’t a romantic match, and I wasn’t looking for friends.
When he asked if he could walk me to my car, I said, “I’m actually going to grab dinner at the bar.” He asked if I wanted company.
I said no.
Old me would’ve said yes out of politeness. New me ordered wine and savored every bite of my meal alone. This was the first time I’d felt confident eating by myself in public, and it felt powerful.
I wasn’t looking to marry just anyone. I was looking for my person. And that required putting myself first.
I started trying new things alone. I took a jewelry-making class at the community college—partly because I love jewelry, partly because who knows where you might meet someone. It didn’t lead to love, but I did meet one of my now-best friends.
For months, I dated intentionally. Some guys were nice but not my guy. Some revealed themselves to be jerks within five minutes. I learned to walk away without guilt or explanation.
I was getting tired. But I’d made a promise to myself: no settling. So I kept showing up.
Then there was Seth from Seattle. We’d been texting for weeks after matching online. His profile mentioned how much he loved “the PNW.” I had to google what that meant—I thought it might be something sexual. It meant Pacific Northwest.
He was fun to talk to and made me laugh. Sometimes I’d go silent for days, but every time I responded, it felt easy. Natural. He remembered details about my life. He was vulnerable about his past relationships. He could articulate what he wanted.
When he invited me to dinner a month in advance—he was coming to Arizona for a conference—I broke my drinks-only rule. Something about him felt different.
Dinner happened, and so did all those clichés I’d rolled my eyes at. “You’ll know when you know.” “It happens when you least expect it.” As soon as I got out of my car and saw him standing there, I felt it.
We sat side by side at the restaurant, talked for hours, and I knew: this was alignment I didn’t have to manufacture. We were on the same page without me having to facilitate getting there.
Before he flew home, I called him from my car. “I wanted to make sure you know how much I like you.” He said, “I like you too.”
That moment wasn’t about being chosen. It was about having the courage to choose—and to voice it without performing or playing games.
I was proud of myself. Not for finding love, but for doing the work to love myself first. For saying no to what didn’t align. For showing up as me—unpolished, unperforming, utterly myself.
I’d learned that my professional strengths—connecting with people, creating safety, facilitating vulnerability—could actually sabotage me in dating. I’d been performing without realizing it. Being authentic while still auditioning. And that kept me from real connection.
Once I did the work, I approached dating differently. I didn’t walk into dates hoping he’d like me. I walked in hoping to discover if we were aligned. And I trusted myself enough to walk away when we weren’t.
Nothing worth having comes easy. Think about your career, that goal you achieved, that commitment you kept. It took work. Daily effort. Dating with intention is no different.
If I could tell that woman in the speakeasy anything, it would be this: Your professional skills are gifts. But on dates, they’re armor. You can’t build real intimacy while you’re busy facilitating a nice conversation.
The right person won’t need you to be good at connecting. They’ll need you to be honest about whether you’re connected. And that requires showing up raw—unpolished, unperforming, willing to be seen.
Stop auditioning. Start choosing. The rest will follow.
About Gabriela Holt
After surviving domestic violence, Gabriela began her self-love journey. Four years later, she met Seth. When breast cancer appeared three years into their relationship, choosing herself became daily practice, not just survival. A Professional Certified Coach (PCC) and founder of Golden Hour Life Coaching, she helps high-achievers stop performing for love. Featured on Finding the Unicorn in You podcast and higher education conferences on resilience, she lives in Washington with Seth and Rookie. https://www.goldenhourlifecoaching.com/
