Reflections on Valentine’s Day, Rationality, and the Illusions of Romance
I never truly knew him. A brief encounter at an SFL conference, and yet, within hours, I had woven an entire narrative in my mind. He was British, articulate, and confident—the kind of man who commanded a room with the cadence of his voice alone. While I relied on the written word, he mastered spoken language with a crisp RP accent and a lexicon that flowed effortlessly in high-register English. I was mesmerized.
He was also undeniably attractive, looking as if he had stepped out of Downton Abbey, and I have a known weakness for British men with refined accents. But this was more than mere physical attraction or a desire for something I lacked. The real connection was rooted in something deeper—our shared values, our sense of purpose, and our innate drive to lead and influence.
Both of us were driven individuals, passionate about our missions, believing in the power of ideas to shape the world. I had been gifted with the power of the pen; he had been gifted with the power of speech. The ability to address audiences, to inspire, to command attention—these were not random traits that I simply envied. They were essential to my spiritual and intellectual mission in this life. This was not just about longing for something absent in me but about recognizing an alignment of forces greater than ourselves.
But he rejected my advances. And still, the lingering question remained: Why did I fall for him in the first place?
Attraction is rarely logical, but as a rational person, I needed to dissect this moment of infatuation. What was it about him that made my mind race with possibilities? Why did I feel as though he had something I needed? And more importantly, what did this reveal about love itself?
Throughout history, the idea of love as a search for completion has been deeply ingrained in human thought.
Plato, in The Symposium, introduced the myth of the androgynous human—beings who were once whole but were split in two by the gods. Ever since, they have wandered the earth searching for their missing halves. Love, in this view, is a desperate attempt to reunite what was torn apart.
This idea is further expanded in Socrates’ dialogue with Diotima, a philosopher and priestess, who challenges the simplistic notion of love as mere physical attraction. According to her, love is not about finding a missing half but rather about an ascent toward higher knowledge and self-realization. Diotima describes love as a ladder: it begins with physical attraction, but the ultimate goal is wisdom and the love of the divine. In this framework, love is not about completion but about transcendence.
Modern mysticism offers a similar concept in the Twin Flame theory: the belief that our soul is divided into two, destined to reunite in a powerful but often tumultuous relationship. This idea has seeped into cultural narratives, making us believe that love should be a completion of something missing within us.
But is it?
Reflecting on my own experience, I realized my attraction wasn’t just about him but about what he represented. I, a deaf woman with speech limitations, had spent a lifetime finding my voice through the written word. He, effortlessly commanding spoken language, embodied the very ability I lacked. He wasn’t just a person—he was an ideal. He symbolized something I felt I had been denied.
And therein lay the illusion: I wasn’t falling for him. I was falling for the part of myself I wished existed.
Looking back, I see echoes of this pattern in my past relationships. At 18, I fell deeply in love with a man who, at the time, seemed to complete me. Where I was reserved, he was outspoken. Where I lacked confidence, he overflowed with it.
The connection was electric—the kind that mystics and poets romanticize. But it was also volatile, a storm that burned bright and burned out just as quickly. We weren’t meant to last a lifetime. Instead, we were meant to grow together and apart.
This, I believe, is where the Twin Flame idea holds value—not as a mystical promise of one destined partner, but as a recognition that certain relationships enter our lives not to complete us but to transform us.
Some loves are not meant for marriage, children, or happily-ever-afters. Some are meant to push us toward self-discovery, to challenge us, to break us open and rebuild us stronger. And when the growth is complete, the love must end.
But this still leaves one question unanswered: What, then, is a love worth keeping?
Few thinkers challenge romanticized love as thoroughly as Ayn Rand. To her, love is not a mystical force or a search for completion. It is an expression of one’s highest values.
She wrote: “Love is our response to our highest values—and can be nothing else.”
Rand’s own life defied societal expectations. As a fiercely independent woman, she chose not to have children, prioritizing intellectual and creative fulfillment over traditional family structures. Her lifelong marriage to Frank O’Connor was built on admiration and shared purpose rather than societal convention. Her relationships—including her controversial affair with Nathaniel Branden—reflected her philosophy that love is about celebrating greatness, not dependency.
Rand rejected the idea of sacrificial love—the notion that one should give themselves entirely to another without consideration for their own well-being. Love, in her view, should be built on mutual admiration, not need. A healthy relationship, therefore, is not two broken halves making a whole, but two whole individuals choosing to be together.
Unlike twenty years ago, being a single woman at 42 means freedom and choice. I am a whole person, always evolving. I do not spend my life longing for love because I do not feel that another person will fill any void in me. Instead, I spend my life loving myself—not in the sense of vanity, but in being faithful to my dreams, fighting for my voice, expressing myself even when my pronunciation isn’t perfect, writing my book, making art, nurturing my values, and doing everything I can to make the world a better place.
Had I gotten to know the British man, perhaps I would have admired him for his values and the life he devoted to them. But even if we had entered a relationship, it would have needed to come from a place of wholeness, of mutual admiration.
We do not need to complete each other because we are not missing anything. Our lives are wonderful apart, and who knows if they would ever be wonderful together.
