To my 20-year-old self
That’s the line Samantha drops in Sex and the City, right in front of Richard, a man she deeply loves. Richard cheated on her once, and it’s haunted her ever since. Even when she’s out with friends, all it takes is Richard’s glance at some woman—maybe a hotel maid—for Sam’s jealousy to flare up. One day, suspicion gnawing at her, she races up a dozen hotel floors, determined to catch him in bed with some sultry maid. But there’s nothing there. And that’s when she says it: “I love you, but I love me more.”
In your 20s, love feels reckless. You think you’re giving this guy your whole life, loving him more than yourself, dreaming of a house, kids, even caring for the people around him. Then one fine day, it hits you—love’s gotten dull, empty. Everything’s coming from your side. No more coffee dates, no more outings, none of that spark. Just obligatory check-ins, a rhythm as steady and lifeless as the ticking clock. And then, out of nowhere, you want to catch a good movie, buy a pretty dress, visit some far-off place you’ve always dreamed of. You text him, and your boyfriend says he’s busy.
A million reasons for his “busy.” Soccer with the guys, drinks with friends, or just too tired after a long day—“I just need to rest, babe.” So there you are in your 20s, moping, bored, letting go of that initial thrill, letting go of the joy of youth without realizing it’s never coming back. All for some guy who’s got nothing to do with you. A guy with a whole world out there, free to pick anyone.
Because no matter how much you love someone, you’ve got to keep the bigger piece for yourself.
You’ve lived all these years—through family, with your parents—and managed just fine on your own. If Mom and Dad said no to going out, you’d sneak off anyway, by hook or by crook, never minding their grown-up worries about us kids. So why now does everything have to hinge on a boyfriend? Doing things together, trying together, a million “togethers.” Where’d you go?
Let’s say you live 60 years. If you spend your 20s on a boyfriend, marry in your mid-20s, then live for your husband and kids, what happens when you’re wrinkled and worn out? Will you look back and regret what you missed in your 20s? What do you do then?
I tell myself I don’t want a love that’s stale, full of duty, or built on pity. But if I don’t even love myself, I’ll just end up a burden to the guy by my side. Because when someone feels responsible, they can’t just walk away if I cry, if I’m a mess, if something’s wrong. No one wants to be the bad guy. But the real villain here? It’s me. I did this to myself—set sky-high expectations, ignored reality, and hurt myself in the process.
It reminds me of Xuân Quỳnh’s poem about love:
We love a man not for ourselves
But they love us because they love themselves
Loved twice, they rise a step higher
Unloved, we feel ourselves shrink
Because we don’t even love ourselves.