Brave on purpose

And a healthy helping of sentimentality at another year's end

Late last night, sitting around a friend's kitchen table, the conversation turned to relationships.

“When did you know Sean was the one?” our friend asked. While I'm skeptical about the idea of the one in general, I told him it might have been New Year's Eve nearly six years ago.

As 2018 slipped away, I too loudly told a friend “I would marry Sean tomorrow” (not realizing Sean himself was listening to the conversation above the party din). We'd been dating for just four months, and the whole thing—me calling off my abusive engagement the previous spring, us only being 21, our collective teetering between college and beyond—was a lot.

It is of course a good thing we didn't get married the following day. I am lucky I threw my bedraggled heart at someone who not only encouraged but insisted upon my independence first, a partner who did not let me lose myself—the self I was just beginning to truly find, to intentionally create—in him.

But I meant what I said six years ago, at least in spirit. And in telling this to our friend I realized that a story that used to embarrass me (like yikes Haley, slow your roll!) now makes me vaguely proud. After the very worst year of my life, I was open and willing to bet all over again, to love all over again—to hurt all over again—and I do not regret my past self's zeal. She was idealistic and naive, that was absolutely part of it, but she was also brave on purpose.

I want to keep maturing. I’m glad my love for Sean is different and wiser and and better now than it was on that drunken evening.

I also want to keep being brave on purpose.