The Lover Was Never Him: Rewiring the Myth of Being Chosen

We grow up with stories where the girl is saved. She is wanted, rescued, chased, claimed. Her worth is defined by who chooses her and how grand the gesture is. It’s in the fairy tales, the rom-coms, the pop songs on repeat. Somewhere along the way, we absorb this as truth: that to be desired is to be worthy. That to be claimed is to be complete.

As women, we are conditioned to orient our lives toward being chosen. By a partner. By the world. By someone who confirms that we are enough. It gets in deep—into our bones, into our breath. Even when we know better intellectually, the body still flinches in the absence of pursuit.

But what if we were taught something else, early on? What if, in grade school, during the rawness of puberty, we were guided not toward performing desirability but toward meeting ourselves? What if we were shown how to access our own masculine qualities: direction, discernment, inner protection and our own feminine depth: nurturance, wisdom, intuitive knowing? What if, instead of waiting to be mirrored by a lover, we learned to recognize our own face in the mirror?

That would change everything.

Instead of self loathing during the hormonal chaos of adolescence, we could have been taught reverence. Instead of craving touch as proof of worth, we could have learned to inhabit our bodies as sacred vessels. We wouldn’t be as easily manipulated by validation or as destabilized by its absence. We would know how to return to ourselves. To our own lap. Our own arms. This is sovereignty. And it begins when we stop grasping.

Neuroplasticity and the Unlearning of Being Unchosen

Our brains are wired through repetition. Repetition of stories, of songs, of subtle cues from caregivers. That wiring can be undone, but not with surface tools. Rewiring for self worth requires deep, embodied work.

When that old thought surfaces: “I'm not enough unless I'm desired”—don’t bypass it. Close your eyes. Ask: Where do I feel this? My gut? Throat? Jaw? Stay with it. Name it. “This is the echo of the girl who thought she had to earn love. I’m with her now.” This kind of attention rewires the limbic brain. It teaches the body a new truth: that safety is internal, not transactional.

If your touch history was distorted, reclaim it with intention. Self-oiling, soft hand to skin. Whisper: “This body is not a thing to be viewed. She is a temple.” This may stir grief, that’s sacred. Let it rise, let it cleanse.

Puberty wasn’t a rite of passage—it was chaos. So initiate yourself now. Make it real. Light a candle. Speak your vows: “I choose myself. I protect myself. I will never abandon my own becoming again.” This declares a new neural reality: you are your own partner, your own parent, your own protector.

When you feel that craving to be seen, held, loved—pause. Ask: Is this mine, or ancestral? Sometimes we’re living out the unlived lives of our mothers and grandmothers. Healing isn’t just personal, it’s collective.

Love Songs Rewritten

Something strange and beautiful happens once you start coming home to yourself. You stop hearing love songs as desperate cries for someone else’s gaze. Instead, they become hymns to the Divine. To Mystery. To the Great Unknown. The lyric that once pierced your heart with longing now feels like a sacred call. “I will always love you” isn’t about him anymore. It’s about Source. It’s about remembering that the ache was never really for another person, it was for union with something infinite.

You realize: you weren’t craving a man. You were craving God. You were craving being met in the depth you know you carry. This is why mystics write like lovers— Rumi, Hafiz…the ecstatic ones, because love is a spiritual hunger. And the moment we stop projecting it onto someone else, we fall in love with the real beloved: existence itself.

That’s the moment the narrative breaks. You don’t stop loving people, you just stop giving them your altar. You begin to hear the music of life differently. You are the love song.

You Were Never Meant to Be Chosen. You Were Meant to Remember Yourself.

And now, you do.

You don’t wait by the door. You don’t flinch in the mirror. You don’t need someone’s eyes to feel beautiful. You are not a half waiting to be made whole. You are not an offering. You are the fire.

And when someone comes along—if they do—it’s not to complete you. It’s to meet you. Right there. In your fullness. In your altar of self. And that, finally, is love without captivity.