Graphic by Carlos Alberto Escobar

MADRID, Spain — “Love is a battle; the one who cares less always has the upper hand and the one who loves more is already lost from the start.”

I was around 14 years old when I found this saying amid countless angsty love quotes and pastel-colored pictures of macarons on my Tumblr timeline. I remember nodding as I was writing it down on my journal, since I thought it was great advice for my future self. For a very long time I kept those words in the back of my mind, as I was trying to gain victory throughout my journey of defining and redefining what love is, only to find myself losing the battle over and over again.

Falling in headfirst was my specialty. I loved furiously, taking pride in the self-proclamation that I am an all-or-nothing kind of person. I have always been aware of the fact that I am a hopeless romantic; I would gladly consume anything related to this abstract, blurry idea of love. My hopeless obsession with romance was acute to the point that when I got to meet John Sexton, the former president of NYU, one of the first questions I asked was, “How did you know you were in love with your wife?” I spent the next 15 minutes just sitting there, awestruck by his story, a story many people would find unentertaining.

I came to the realization that I just love love. My heart has always been in great danger with this idealized version of how things should be; my unrealistic concepts override what is supposed to happen naturally instead.

This idealism can hit hard at times. After every heartbreak, I felt myself growing bitter towards love. I stopped admitting that I am a hopeless romantic. I tried to cut that off from being a part of me, realizing I have just grown too naïve, having read too many Pablo Neruda poems and having watched one too many artificially sweetened Hollywood scenes.

Maybe that saying is true, and I have lost the battle. I have always been the one who loves more, and I cannot bear this loss any longer. I want to win and parade my victory around. I decided that I needed to guard my heart, or else one day I wouldn’t have enough Band-Aids to cover its cracks and damage.

My attitude changed drastically. I built walls around me, I didn’t let anyone in. For quite a long time, I was ashamed of my own feelings, I constantly brushed off opportunities, I was cold and I shut out anyone who was trying to get any closer. Some were eager, but the harder they tried, the harsher I shut my door in their face. I was the epitome of sadness and cruelty blended together. I felt that I was winning, and though I was shamelessly proud of it at the time, I now realize that I owe some people an apology.

But life works in a funny way, and what goes around comes back around. One day, another silly heartbreak marked my sudden turn. I did not see it coming, because it had been a long while since my last heartbreak. I thought that I have guarded my heart very carefully. I thought I would remain victorious. I thought I had learned my lesson.

That moment encouraged me to revisit and re-evaluate my take on love. I realized that no matter how hard I tried, I had no control over my own feelings; I could not guard my heart constantly. It was also a huge slap in my face, and served as a reminder of how bad heartbreak can feel. If I don’t like how it feels, I am pretty sure that others don’t too.

It’s simple math: If I don’t want to get my heart broken, I should stop breaking others’ hearts. I should be kinder and gentler toward others’ feelings. I admit that I have been mean. I felt ashamed of my so-called romantic victories. After contemplating for some time, I can confidently state that I am prouder of my losses.

Losing in love is a victory in itself. Being able to love is a mark of victory over your own fear and ego. I am a firm believer that falling in love, or at least staying in love, is a constant, conscious and difficult choice that you make every day.

Falling in love is scary in itself; it is the act of being open and vulnerable to someone else, allowing them to see a raw version of yourself that you wouldn’t normally show to others. Being the one who loves more requires more bravery, allowing yourself to be exposed to pain and disappointment, knowing that you are willing to give more. Instead of cursing my bad decisions, I have learned to be proud of myself for loving again, and for giving love a second chance.

It’s not that I didn’t get my lesson. Falling in love again after a heartbreak isn’t losing; it’s winning. Maybe the lesson was nonexistent to begin with, maybe pain does come in a package with love and that is okay. I knew all too well that heartbreak was waiting on the doorway every single time, and I went for it anyway. Heck, I didn’t fall, I jumped. It may not have been the best decision in the world, but it was one of the most courageous things I have done in my life.

I personally agree with the theory that falling in love is similar to handing someone a gun and asking them to point it at your head while trusting that they wouldn’t pull the trigger. Unfortunately, most of the time, they do pull the trigger. I personally feel like this is worth it; I was reborn every time they decided to pull the trigger. In the process of love, I like to believe that we exchange pieces of ourselves with our significant other, and each exchange comes with a valuable lesson.

While I may never love the same way ever again, I grow with every heartbreak. I think seeing myself grow is a beautiful process. My stance and take on love changes over time, and I am starting to learn how to handle things with grace. There is a hint of maturity in learning to let go instead of holding onto sweet nothings; there is a beauty in forgiving and brushing away all of the hatred that stings every time a name is mentioned. There is an elegance in remembering that it is okay to lose; it is okay to love more.

It hits me that maybe it was arrogant of me to proclaim in the past that I had the ability and humility to love a person more. Maybe I didn’t love them more; I just needed them more than they needed me. I only expected them to feel and do so much because I knew I was willing to feel and give as much. Love is supposed to be selfless. There will never be a balance of give-and-take when it comes to love, for feelings are immeasurable; even the most complex formula won’t do the math.

In the end, the accumulation of my losses in the battle of love has led me to realize that forever isn’t the prerequisite of something to be worthwhile. What matters is that at some points of my life, love has made me the happiest person in the whole world. What matters is the fact that a single kiss on my forehead made me feel like I won the Nobel Prize. What matters is that I was over the moon whenever our hands were intertwined. What matters is that, for some time, I could relate to all those poems and stupid love songs. On top of all that, what matters the most is the fact that I had the chance to feel the intensity of infatuation, worry, jealousy, adoration and everything else that makes us human.

Maybe I don’t need to build a fortress to save myself from heartbreaks. Maybe I don’t need to break others’ hearts in order to win. Maybe love was never about winning or losing; nobody is keeping score anyway. Maybe, just maybe, love isn’t a battle after all.