Romanticizing our lives has become a quiet theme for many of us.
Social media lures and inspires with glimpses into the slowed-down, softened worlds of others — small windows where simple tasks and everyday beauty feel almost sacred.
This way of living stirs something deep within us: a yearning not for romance in the traditional sense, but for a self-given wonder that nurtures the soul.
Growing up, most of us were taught that romance meant mystery, excitement, and love — but always from someone else.
For me, romance was always imagined as something between a man and a woman, or more precisely, a dance between masculine and feminine energy.
(Insert your own version here; the point remains.)
Romance was something shared, exchanged — a magical experience made possible only in relation to another.
Yet the word romantic holds more meanings than we were taught.
The dictionary defines it as “marked by an imaginative or emotional appeal of what is heroic, adventurous, remote, mysterious, or idealized.”
In this light, romanticizing our lives becomes less about waiting for someone, and more about stepping into a deep, creative relationship with life itself — even, and especially, when we’re alone. As a woman in her mid-fifties — newly single after many years of marriage, with an empty nest and wide open spaces where family life used to live — I found romanticizing my own life became an unexpected form of healing.
It gave me permission to slow down, to savor the small things: the rich aroma of a good cup of coffee, the charm of a cozy café, the quiet thrill of a solo walk down an unfamiliar street.
Without anyone else’s opinion or schedule guiding me, each morning held its own quiet mystery.
Where would I go?
What would I discover?
The adventures were simple but profound — not heroic in the way of epic tales, but heroic in the way of showing up for my own life, fully.
There is a certain bravery, a soft courage, in learning to enjoy your own company — sometimes even more than the company of others.
And yet, even while I was capturing these small beautiful moments — the kind that fill journals and camera rolls — there were still nights when the empty cup made itself known.
It happened on one of those early winter evenings, when darkness falls before you even realize the afternoon has slipped away.
I had planned a quiet night for myself — a warm bath, a small dinner, soft pajamas, a cozy couch.
Running errands earlier in the day, I spotted the perfect set of winter-white pajamas: soft, flowy, off-the-shoulder — the kind that makes you feel beautifully feminine without even trying.
I bought them immediately, imagining the comfort of the evening ahead.
At home, I drew a fragrant bubble bath, lit candles, scrubbed my skin until it was smooth and fragrant with rosewater.
I slipped into my new pajamas and padded softly through a house filled with the scent of vanilla and cinnamon.
I ate a simple dinner. I admired the cozy, candlelit atmosphere I had created for myself.
And you would think — if social media has taught us anything — that I would have felt perfectly content.
But standing there, in the golden candlelight, something unexpected broke loose inside me.
Out of nowhere, an overwhelming emptiness washed over me.
I stood frozen in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around my waist, blinking against sudden tears.
What was wrong with me?
Hadn’t I done everything right?
Hadn’t I created a beautiful, gentle evening just for myself?
But my body — wiser than my mind — was trying to tell me something deeper.
In that moment, more than anything, I wanted to share it all.
I longed for laughter echoing down the hall, for a smiling face across the room, for the warmth of another’s arms around me.
I wanted to be wanted.
Not in a desperate way — but in the deeply human way that craves connection, tenderness, belonging.
There was no one there to brush the hair from my face, no one to say, “I’m so glad you’re here,” no one to share the sweetness of an ordinary, perfect night.
Tears spilled down my cheeks as I realized: no matter how much I had grown, how brave and independent I had become, part of me still yearned for a love outside myself.
A love that would meet my soft feminine heart with a strong, steady masculine energy.
(Ah, the ever-elusive soulmate — part myth, part longing, part cosmic joke.)
That night, I crawled into bed, wrapped in the softness of my new pajamas, a box of tissues by my side, binge-listening to my emotions the way others might binge-watch a crime drama.
And you know what?
It was okay.
It was more than okay.
It was real.
Because even in all the beauty of romanticizing my life, even in all the self-love and hard-won independence — the empty cup still matters.
It speaks.
It tells the truth.
I have come to cherish both truths:
The beauty of filling my own cup — and the aching hope that one day, someone will want to hold it with me.
So I’ll keep taking pictures.
Quiet, gentle snapshots of a life I’m building with love.
And maybe, someday, there will be someone who smiles, tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and says,
“I’m so glad you had a good day. Show me everything you saw.”
Until then, if you ever find yourself standing in the middle of your living room, wrapped in soft pajamas and solitude — tears running down your face — know this:
You are not broken.
You are not failing.
You are living.
You are reaching for connection, and you are learning, moment by moment, what your heart truly needs.
Welcome all of it — the joy, the ache, the longing.
Each feeling carries you closer to the woman you are becoming.
The empty cup is not a flaw.
It’s a space.
A sacred waiting place.
Sometimes we fill it ourselves.
Sometimes, we wait for the right soul to pour into it.

How do you romanticize your life?
Is it the scent of something warm in the kitchen?
A book that feels like an old friend?
A quiet walk with nowhere particular to go?
And even with all that beauty —
do you ever find yourself holding an empty cup, too?
I’d love to hear your heart.

Until next time,
– Dawn