What happens when you stop analysing everyone else

By Regine Rauin | When Rooms Tell Stories

 

I love red flags.

Not because I’m particularly good at avoiding them.

But because I find them fascinating.

A red flag is a little warning sign saying:

“Careful. This may become uncomfortable.”

The internet has turned them into an entire industry.

Red flag when dating:

He only writes “Hey”.

He writes too much.

He writes too little.

He replies immediately.

He replies tomorrow.

He has an ex.

He doesn’t have an ex.

He owns too many plants.

He owns no plants.

He says “we” after the third date.

He says “I” after the third date.

Eventually, you need a checklist and perhaps an MOT inspector before agreeing to coffee.

But there is one red flag we rarely discuss:

ourselves.

Not because we are all secretly toxic.

But because we bring our own patterns with us.

 

I, for example, found people fascinating when there was something to uncover.

I liked depth.

Complexity.

Stories.

Dark corners.

Everything behind the façade.

As an interior architect, this is hardly surprising.

I am professionally trained to look behind façades.

But eventually I had to admit:

 

Perhaps my fascination with the building site was part of the problem.

Because when I find someone fascinating because I want to discover what is behind his walls, I can easily forget to ask whether I would actually like to live in the building.

That is an uncomfortable realisation.

It is also incredibly useful.

 

Perhaps you know the pattern.

We don’t necessarily fall in love with what someone is.

We fall in love with what we think they could become.

“If only he…”

Processed his past.

Changed his job.

Drank less.

Communicated better.

Opened up.

Understood what I need.

If only he…

Stop.

That isn’t a partner.

That’s a project plan.

And at some point, perhaps we should ask:

 

 

Why do I keep volunteering to be project manager?

The radical reprogramming doesn’t mean:

“I must never like complicated men again.”

That would be ridiculous.

People are complicated.

I’m complicated.

You probably are too.

Welcome to the club.

The better question is:

“Is the thing that fascinates me about this person also something that will make me happy in a relationship?”

That is different.

I can love depth.

But I don’t need someone who sends me through three emotional basement levels before I get my morning coffee.

I can love individuality.

But I don’t need someone who uses independence as an excuse to keep me permanently outside his life.

I can love strong personalities.

 

But strength doesn’t mean turning your own needs into armour.

And eventually dating becomes surprisingly quiet.

Not easier.

Clearer.

I don’t have to diagnose anyone.

I don’t have to analyse him.

I don’t have to work out what he really means.

I can observe.

What does he actually do?

Not:

What could he do?

What might he mean?

What’s underneath it?

What could happen?

But:

What is actually here?

That may be the most grown-up form of dating:

Not hope for potential.

Attention to reality.

And perhaps the most important red flag isn’t the person standing in front of you.

 

 

Perhaps it is the moment when you start trying to turn him into someone he isn’t.

About the Author

I'm Regine Rauin, also known as Mystic Maveress.

I read rooms the way other people read tarot cards.

And every now and then...

...I write a book.

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