For so many, love has an ideal destination; it eventually leads to the words “til death do us part” and is followed by the ideal wedding song. In my mind, I used to have two: All My Life by Jodeci and Killing Me Softly by Lauryn Hill. But that’s far from my personal experience.

I’m often afraid to write about love because I never feel like an expert on it. I only know the love that runs white hot at first contact, burning you all over until there’s nothing left. The kind of love that is all-consuming and destructive to the point that you lose yourself in the needs and desires of the other person.

Eventually, that same love ends for a number of reasons akin to jealousy, suspicion, cheating, and incessant fighting. And if none of those brew up the perfect potion for demise, self-sabotage rears its ugly head in the form of “what ifs” and the toxic belief that no matter what the other person says or does, they will eventually hurt you, anyway.

Somewhere along the line between Disney’s superficial examples of the great white knight in shining armor and happily ever after, combined with the imperfect relationships I witnessed in my own home, love became a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of rabid passion and inevitable disappointment–with a few fist fights in the mix.

Love  became something I yearned for but also sought to protect myself against. I held my cards close to my chest, erecting every defense humanly possible. I trusted no one, yet felt I needed to be loved and desired by everyone in an effort to feel in control.

That didn’t work out very well for me.

I’m often afraid to write about love because I never feel like an expert on it. I only know the love that runs white hot at first contact, burning you all over until there’s nothing left.

Whenever love beckoned, I either ran in the opposite direction or I pulled out my whip and tried to subdue it with force. And in one moment I’ll never forget–the last relationship I was in–it cost me, dearly. Without even knowing it, the person who once loved me for my unbridled enthusiasm and fearlessness no longer recognized me. Instead, all that was left was a jaded, self-destructive, brooding doppelgänger.

That person’s (paraphrased) parting words to me: I want to be with someone who believes in the goodness of mankind, has a positive outlook on life. He doesn’t have to be perfect, but he does need to be moving confidently in his purpose. Someone who is brave enough to be happy.

There’s nothing more heart-wrenching than hearing someone you once envisioned spending the rest of your life with describe their ideal mate and it be the complete opposite of you at that point in time. But it was necessary. And although I don’t have a cheery or warm-and-fuzzy ending to that story where we reunited and lived happily ever after, I did learn something about what is absolutely necessary before anyone can love.

We must first fall head over heels in love with ourselves.

We must be brave enough to delve into the deepest and darkest crevices of our being and dare to stare our insecurities, doubts, and trauma in the face and embrace them as valid. All of it. The pain. The fear. The uncertainty. We must lean into the memories and experiences that have scarred us and dare to find the meaning and clarity within them, even if we know it will hurt.

For me, it was realizing that no matter what facade I confidently wore, on the inside I was still the trembling, helpless six-year-old boy who cried himself to sleep every night because he felt out of place, wrong, and unworthy. I was still the awkward, lanky, and emotionally unstable teenager who, albeit bright and inquisitive, hated the skin he was in and harbored a deep-seated rage against those he considered more attractive or well-off than himself.

I don’t claim to have all the answers or feel I’m even remotely close to figuring everything out. But I am committed to the journey and everything it brings. And perhaps, that’s all love ever requires.

I was terrified to admit it, but I was still the smooth-talking beau with the bedroom eyes who used sex to conquer, even though all he ever wanted was to hold and be held. To feel safe to simply be, without the burden of pretending or judgement.

Even after writing this, I’m still afraid to write about love because I don’t feel like an expert on it. But the longer I live and the more interviews I conduct, I realize that none of us are. And that’s a good thing. Because it means that, even if we always feel like we’re getting it wrong and failing miserably at it, it’s all worth it if we trust that we’re becoming better in the process. It’s really that simple.

I don’t claim to have all the answers or feel I’m even remotely close to figuring everything out. But I am committed to the journey and everything it brings. And perhaps, that’s all love ever requires.