Broken Lightbulbs and Broken Hearts

On love, being single, and being there for myself.

If this essay had a theme song, it would be this.

Leave the light on

For myself when I come home

I recently had one of those moments that made me go “wow, this is true adulting.”

While changing my kitchen light bulb, the old bulb rolled off a table and shattered into tiny pieces on the floor. And then of course while trying to clean up the broken glass, I cut my hand. 

Leaning over my bathroom sink, rinsing my bloody finger as Sammy Rae and The Friends played in the background, I was completely overwhelmed. Should I clean up the broken bulb first, or put the new one in the overhead socket? Do I need stitches? Also, I can smell the apple crisp I’m baking wafting through the house and I’m starving.

I eventually got myself together and took care of both the new and broken bulbs. I made myself an easy dinner. The apple crisp turned out wonderfully. And yet all the while, I couldn’t help but think, it would be really nice to have a partner in moments like these. One of us could have swept up the broken glass while the other one screwed in the new light bulb. One of us could have started dinner so that the food would be ready sooner. It would’ve been nice to have some company and support during this ordeal.

I'm not surprised, not everything lasts
I've broken my heart so many times I stopped keeping track
Talk myself in, I talk myself out
I get all worked up then I let myself down

Lyrics from Michael Bublè’s song, “Haven’t Met You Yet.”

I recently told my close friends that I think I have one good heartbreak in me before I take a true dating hiatus. That if things don’t work out long-term with the next person I really give it a go with, I am down for the count and off the market for the foreseeable future.

I got my heart broken recently by someone who I really thought could have been the ever elusive “one.” Or one of the ones. I don’t believe that there is just one soulmate out there for everyone. But I do believe in love. And I absolutely believe in that special inner knowing that spreads through you like a warm ray of light, when you know you’ve found a kindred spirit in the world.

This feeling is not limited to romantic partners - I’ve had this feeling when meeting friends who are now like family. Like when I made my first friend in London, and we bonded because we were wearing the same bag. Or when I met a complete stranger in my/our favorite coffee shop, after only talking a little bit on Bumble BFF. 

I’ve rarely had that feeling, romantically. But I had it with this person. A brief, yet gorgeous, flickering flame that I thought would burn for far longer than it did. 

It’s scary to admit this, to both myself and to you. Partly because the woman I’m referencing could very well be reading this. I’m not sure if I hope she is, or if I hope she isn’t. Either way, I sincerely, deeply hope she’s doing okay, and finding true peace and joy in her corner of the world.

Sometimes two hearts just can’t dance to the same beat.

So I’ll pack up my things, and I’ll take what remains of me.

Lyrics from Rascal Flatts ‘Winner at a Losing Game’ A song I’ve loved since I was 14 or so years old, long before I truly knew what heartache was.

Most of the time, I try to be level headed and not dwell on my single status. But every now and then, I throw myself a pity party.

*Clip from Sex and The City, in which Charlotte (played by Kristin Davis) laments over her single status.

While I’ve dated off and on since I was 20 years old, I’ve been consistently single for most of my life. I had one serious relationship during quarantine, that wasn’t remotely healthy. For a long time, I was incredibly codependent and believed that love itself would save me and make me a better person. I put huge amounts of energy into dating apps. I gave less thought to who I liked, and more thought to whether or not someone liked me. I felt constantly needy, and incredibly anxious. 

Early twenty something Alexa would never have believed me if I told her that people who make you feel needy aren’t interested in, or potentially even capable of, meeting your needs. My younger self was largely focused on self improvement, being flexible, and likable. She resented the fact that she had to be so independent. At certain points, I was less concerned with finding the right person, and would’ve just settled for any person. (And trust me, I did. Many, many times.)

These days, I have no interest in being saved by anyone, let alone a white knight of any gender. I maintain that Cinderella was looking for a fun night out, and Ariel was craving an adventure on land — the romance was just an added perk. In my book, both of those princesses saved themselves. It’s taken me a long, long time to develop this perspective. The road was hard, windy, and full of twists and turns. 

Yet while I recognize that I have no need for a romantic partner, I still want one. I want to be part of a team. I want to do life with someone. 

I want someone who I can find calm in the chaos with; someone who will find me in the chaos, and tell me that I make sense to them when I feel like an absolute mess. 

Someone who wants to go on adventures and travel, but also loves going back to the hotel room to order takeout, cuddle, and watch Gilmore Girls.

Someone who supports my ambition, and is ambitious themselves, with never-ending curiosity and zest for life.

Someone who will always pause a conversation of any importance to wave at babies and dogs.

Someone who will happily indulge my cheesiness, and also get my sarcasm (ex: you can expect me to ruthlessly make fun of hallmark movies AND likely cry at the end.)

Someone who finds me ‘special in all of my regular-ness’, as Amanda Doyle said on an episode of We Can Do Hard Things.

Someone who tolerates celebrates my wild, cozy, free self, and trusts me to do the same.

Someone who makes me feel held and free.

You found me in the flames

It’s the daylight of change

Baby all that stuff is done

You’re my morning sun

Aurora, you are

You’re my morning sun

*Aurora by Daisy Jones and The Six

Writing this post is one of the most vulnerable things I’ll ever do. My inner critic is shouting, Don’t you dare publish this! Do you know how this will make you look! How desperate and emotional future dates will think you are if they see this?! Delete it. Delete the entire substack. Tuck your wild cozy free self back in a dusty corner of the closet. Go back to being your representative self full time.

And yet, there’s another part of me quietly whispering that I’m meant to share this all with you. So here I am, doing just that.

After sweeping up the shards of glass from the broken lightbulb, I very carefully placed the remains into the box that the new lightbulb came in. I always write “BROKEN” as many places as I can, when I throw out broken glass, out of fear that someone in my apartment’s compactor room might hurt themselves if I don’t label the box properly. As I was writing all over the lightbulb box, I thought about a voice memo that a close friend had left for me after a recent failed date, in which they emphatically emphasized how much I deserve romantic love, and how much love they know I have to give.

I thought to myself, one day someone is going to think it’s so endearing and thoughtful that you label boxes of broken glass like this. Someone is going to turn to you and say, “it is so thoughtful and cute and kind that you do this.” 

But for today, I am that person to me. And I think it’s really thoughtful of me. 

This is the part where I say something cheesy about broken lightbulbs and broken hearts, right?

Something about how I can turn the light on in my own heart, just like I replaced the lightbulb in my kitchen.

That might be a little too cheesy, even for me.

Instead, I’ll leave you with a thank you, an epilogue of sorts. and a playlist.

Thank you so much for reading and bearing witness to this very essential part of me that I’ve rarely (if ever) dragged out into the light of day. I’ve always felt like admitting my longing for romantic love made me weaker somehow, though I would never ever think that about other people. This blog continues to be so healing for me. I’m so grateful for this community.

Here’s that epilogue of sorts.

I wrote the majority of this essay that night that I broke that lightbulb. Now, the night before I hit publish, I’ve decided to take a little break from dating. And I think that’s important to include here. I mean, I might as well tell you about this. I’ve already gotten pretty vulnerable here, haven’t I?

So much of my life has been marked by longing. I will forever be open to love finding me whenever and wherever it’s supposed to. I clearly want romantic love in my life.

But for the first time in my life, I’m curious about what my life would look like if I surrender to what is currently here - instead of constantly focusing on what I hope is coming. I have to trust the wild desire stirring within me right now, to be alone for a while. This desire to focus on the present, and all it is has to offer.

Since making this decision, I’ve already started to feel more grateful for my platonic relationships than I ever have (which is saying a lot, because I already loved my friends quite a lot.) I’m keenly aware that not everyone has friendships as deep and as generous as mine. I genuinely think my friends are some of the best people in this world. I may not have romantic love in my life, but I have the very best friends you could ever ask for.

I’m excited to update you on what I learn about myself during this period of intentional single-ness. I’ll keep you posted.

Last but not least - here’s a playlist full of my favorite songs about love AND heartbreak. I think it is pretty easy tell where the transition is. 10/10 do not recommend listening to this one on shuffle unless you enjoy emotional whiplash. I could write an entire essay about this playlist alone.

I also made one for last week’s post, Knives and Honey, including all the country murder ballads I mentioned plus some bonus songs. You know, if you feel like listening to some songs about when love goes south.