Julia Costle

Valentine’s week arrives every year like clockwork—pink, glittery and impossible to ignore. Some people count down the days. Others count down the minutes until it’s over. Personally, I’ve started to suspect that holidays like Valentine’s, dropped inconveniently into the gray slog of February, are less about romance and more about giving us a reason to keep going until spring. Valentine’s Day, at its core, is a holiday built on expectation. Will they ask me to be their Valentine? What gift proves just enough devotion without trying too hard? Even if we swear we’re “not into all that,” most of us secretly have a mental image of how the day is supposed to go. Flowers. Chocolates. Reservations. Effort. And I’m not saying expectation is bad. But I do think it reveals something about how we’ve learned to measure love—by what it gives us, by how needed it makes us feel, by how much validation it provides.

Recently, I came across a quote by C.S. Lewis in his book “The Four Loves”: “True friendship arises when friends look side-by-side at a common truth or pursuit, rather than face-to-face, removing expectations of mutual obligation.” He then wrote, “Friendship is utterly free from affection’s need to be needed.” Read that again—affection’s need to be needed. This made me wonder if the purest relationships—the ones we call real—aren’t built on scorekeeping. They don’t require proof or presents or perfectly planned evenings. They just are.

Which is a refreshing idea … and also wildly out of step with modern dating.

As someone who has both observed and participated in the mainstream college dating scene, I’ve noticed how obsessed we’ve become with finding “the perfect fit.” We’re constantly told to know our worth, set boundaries, practice self-care—all good things, in theory. But somewhere along the way, self-respect turned into emotional armor. We’ve become so picky, so curated, so convinced we deserve a flawless match that we barely let anyone in at all. Take Bowdoin’s Marriage Pact for example—an algorithm that promises to hand deliver compatibility based on neat little categories: X interest in partying, Y devotion to family, Z academic ambition. It’s dating reduced to a math problem. Efficient? Maybe. Romantic? Absolutely not.

Here’s my slightly controversial take: Real self-care is dating. It’s experimenting. It’s not tying yourself down to one person. It’s saying yes to the coffee date you’re unsure about. It’s learning from people you wouldn’t normally choose on paper. But the longer I’m single, the more I notice myself doing exactly the opposite. I curate an imaginary ideal in my head. I build walls of expectations. I end up cutting everyone down to a tiny list of “maybe’s,” shrinking the world of dating, and I know I’m not the only one. Sometimes I wonder if all this selectivity is less about “standards” and more about fear. Could it be that in avoiding disappointment, the more we isolate ourselves from any kind of real love?

Of course, standards do matter. I’m not advocating for dating a total prick in the name of openness. There has to be balance—a kind of Goldilocks zone between settling and demanding perfection. Balance, it seems, is what it always comes back to.

So, in honor of Valentine’s Day, I want to propose a small rebellion. Whether you’re single, dating or somewhere in the gray area, try loosening your grip a little. Open a door you’ve convinced yourself is locked. Like anything, life has a way of making us think there’s always a better moment or a greener patch—it’s our job to let go of those desires and focus on the now. So send the Valentine’s letter, buy the chocolates and say how you feel, even if it’s messy. Now more than ever, we need an excuse for more care, compassion and curiosity in the world. I’ve come to realize that maybe the most romantic thing we can do is stop expecting romance to be flawless.

Lily Mott is a member of the Class of 2028.