You always come first

I had always known the delicate ache of being almost but not quite. My life was marked by a pattern of nearlys: I was the best at the French competition and lost by one point because a teacher walked in and slipped the answers to her student and the duty teacher simply turned a blind eye. Yes, I was unstoppable later in high school but it was a nasty sting. Despite being introverted in early years, I was quite popular and had lots of friends who always managed to choose someone else to be their bridesmaid, maid of honor, a godmother to their kids. I put on a brave face and hid my disappointment because they all claimed I was their “bestie”. I wore my patience like a cloak, waiting for my turn, sure that someone would look at me and see me as their first and only choice.

Yet, time and again, reality proved otherwise. In friendships, I was the confidante, the one people turned to when others were unavailable. Even in my family, despite being the most educated and capable of handling domestic matters, my brother would turn to cousins, my mom would treat me as a lackey.

Don’t get me started on relationships. I was the first choice when it came to being “exclusive and official” and they would parade me around like a prize. They would present me to their parents, and the moment I felt like part of the family, a plain Jane would emerge and walk down the aisle. A safe choice. It's not that I didn't get proposals, I did, but by the guys who were not my long-term choice. And yes, I did say "yes" several times to calm them down and maybe I didn’t want to be married to most of them, just wanted to have fun, but still, when I was really set on a guy who made my heart flutter and ache, I was told I was not “marriage material”.

The superlatives like “too pretty, too hot, too independent, too smart, too educated” would surface in break-up arguments and hurt like hell. Turned out that sometimes being too much was what was making me the second best.

It was not that I lacked for love or warmth in life. The quality of the love I received in most cases troubled me—a love measured, rationed, and always with so many conditions. Sometimes I felt like I was expected to jump through flaming hoops.

Not that there was a shortage of mad declarations of love and fabulous outings and champagne by the lake and extraordinary acts of devotion and passion but then, I would be replaced. In every relationship, I fought the quiet suspicion that I was a placeholder for the “real thing”. Why would I think that? Well, every break-up was followed by their “forever after”. I started considering myself "the guys’ lucky charm" – date me and you will marry the girl you really think you should when we are done.

This realization settled over me in small moments: at a party, watching the person I’d been seeing lock eyes with another woman across the room; reading a message that was not meant for me, reading an email from a friend who only reached out in times of trouble, and the final blow was being left out of a godmother's birthday celebration.

That turning point happened one sunny afternoon as I flipped through Instagram posts and saw the pictures. It came right after going through an extremely rough patch - there had been many losses in the family and a serious health scare and I was waiting for someone to call or return one, to text me to get me out of the slump like I had done dozens of times for those people—for an invitation, a sign that I was on their minds and they were there for me.

Suddenly I felt how lonely I had become. The waiting had become a kind of habit, a quiet resignation to life in the second row after so many crises. As a family caregiver I had built my world around others’ needs and desires, hoping, perhaps, that by being indispensable I would become irreplaceable.

That evening, I wrote in my journal:

“I have always been strong and independent, and I am tired of waiting around, being the backup plan just because my life slid into a temporary ditch. I want to be someone’s first thought, their choice—not in the absence of something better, but because I am exactly what they need. I don’t need others to make my life great again.”

The next day, I began to fight for myself: I stopped replying to messages that only arrived at midnight, refused to rearrange my plans for someone who rarely did the same, and when a friend tried to use me as a free therapist, I told her off and blocked her.

Blocking people felt so liberating. Now they could not reach me or flaunt their celebrations where I was supposed to be. Instead, I started reaching out to some long-lost people that had left the country and started Skyping with them and exchanging tons of audio messages.

When the person I had been seeing asked to join him at a gathering “since my date cancelled,” I refused. “Please don’t call me anymore,” I said and disconnected. I might have felt a small ache in my chest but no regret. And of course, I blocked him.

One evening, during one of my solo travels, as autumn painted the city gold, I sat alone in a café by the window, a big mug of delicious tea conquering my senses. I enjoyed observing passers-by, enveloped in the gentle hum of conversation, and felt, for the first time in a long while, a sense of ease and freedom.

Months passed. I had unblocked most people and my phone was bursting with the invitations and offers to get together but I lost interest, honestly. I always declined politely but unequivocally.

Months passed. I found myself surrounded by people who craved my presence—people who reached out, who showed up, who listened as much as they spoke. I fell in love with the rhythm of my own life, the public speaking, traveling, seeing new places.

And one day, someone from a long time ago, who was a mere shadow when I was still popular, entered my world—he saw me as I was—authentic, “irresistible”, charming, self-assured – the person I had become. There was no ache, no sense of waiting, only the quiet thrill of being chosen, not as a second thought, but as the first and only choice.

In that certainty, I found what I had been searching for all along—not the fleeting validation of another’s affection, but the abiding strength of self-love and confidence, radiant and whole.