Do You Believe......in Soulmates?

 We learn about love in many ways—through our parents, friends, coworkers, neighbors, strangers, and now more than ever, through social media. Each of these sources offers us a version of what love is supposed to look like. But in truth, love means something different to everyone. For some, it’s sharing a quiet coffee with a partner in a small café, a peaceful walk through the park as autumn leaves drift to the ground or simply reading side by side in a bookstore or library, feeling connected even in silence.

We’re often told that everyone has a soulmate, but no one really explains what that means—or what it looks like in real life. As a teenager, I thought I’d found mine in a girlfriend who turned out to be using me to hide her relationship with someone else, much older. Later, I believed my soulmate was a woman I met at work and became engaged to. But we were on different timelines: I was still chasing parties, while she was ready to start a family. Then came my first wife, someone I thought was my forever person, only to discover over time that the relationship became verbally abusive. By then, we had three children, and the emotional damage had already taken root—damage I’m still working through nearly a decade later.

Today, I believe my current wife is my soulmate. But it’s made me reflect on the very idea of soulmates. Is it a real, spiritual connection—or just a comforting label we use to convince ourselves we’ve finally made the right choice? And if we stop feeling that deep connection, for whatever reason, does it mean the love was never real? Or simply that love, like people, evolves—and sometimes fades?

These aren’t easy questions, and maybe they don’t have answers. Still, they linger. I wonder if the love I’ve felt in the past was genuine. Did the other person feel the same way? Or were they acting out a version of love they believed they were supposed to feel, without truly understanding it themselves? When love begins to fade for one or both partners, it can make you question everything—every moment, every memory. Was it all real, or just something we were conditioned to believe should exist?

People tell me I’m just going through a hard time—that things will get better, that I’ll heal, find someone new, and fall in love again. But here’s my truth: I don’t want to.

I don’t want to start over. I don’t want to play the dating game, navigate awkward small talk, overanalyze signals, or guess the right time to hold a hand or share a kiss. I don’t want to worry about when—or if—it’s okay to be vulnerable, to reveal my quirks, my insecurities, my habits, or my dreams. I don’t want to wonder if they’ll still accept me once they see who I really am.

I’ve done it all before. And right now, I just don’t have it in me to do it again.

This will be my last time falling in love. I’m choosing to be alone—and in time, I’ll be okay with that. Maybe not today, maybe not next year, but eventually. For now, I just hope to find some sense of balance—between the dark days and the light. Between doubt and clarity. Between what was, and what still might be.