What Romance Novels Have Taught Me About Love

Don’t tell anyone that I told you this, but —

I really love historical romance novels.

It feels a little embarrassing to admit. I have an English degree! I should like classics or modern fiction or something! But, the heart wants what the heart wants — and this heart loves sappy love stories set in vaguely 19th century England.

I gobble them up. I like to read them on my iPad, partially for the convenience,  and partially because that way I don’t have evidence of them lying around the house. I usually devour a book all in one sitting (or lying, I guess, since I am usually either on the couch or in bed), typically late at night, staying up until the wee hours of the morning to reach that inevitable happy ending.

That’s one of the things I love about them: there’s always a happy ending.

No matter what drama goes down over the course of the story, there is probably going to be an epilogue with a happily ever after and a baby. It’s inevitable. At least, in the kinds of series I like to read, it is; my favorites are the “sweet and clean” (yes, they’re really called that) ones that tend to start with a marriage of convenience, feature plenty of PG-13 safe make outs, and have some conveniently placed chapter breaks. It’s fine. I’d rather not have the Harlequin-style...imagery (once you’ve heard the word “flower” used in that context, you kind of wish you could bleach it from your brain). I’m perfectly content with the type of romance novel you’d be fine sharing with your mom or middle school niece.

Anyway, the series I’m into right now is by an author named Bree Wolf, which cleverly weaves all the books together by introducing friends and siblings and spinning off stories that all exist in the same universe. It’s like the MCU, but instead of superheroes they’re all nice people in Victorian-era London. Much less explosions, much more tea.  

While all the characters and their plot lines are much different, there is admittedly a formula to these types of books, and in this particular series it manifests as a marriage early in the book that either one character or the other is reluctant about, and unfolds as one or both of them come to realize that they actually are worthy of love, and learn to accept the affection shown to them.

And I think it’s this aspect that keeps me coming back, why I’ve sped through five of them and am glad there are more:

I love reading about these relationships where someone who feels unworthy of love finally, finally believes that they were wrong.

Because, if I were a character in one of these books, I know I’d be the reluctant one. Are you sure you want me? Am I really the right one? Do I actually deserve all of this affection and devotion? Am I worthy?

Sometimes I lie in bed after finishing one of these books, still thinking about the epilogue full of glowing couples, and wonder, will I ever have that? I know they’re fictional people, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling a tiny bit jealous of their happiness. Will I ever have that kind of warm, open, affectionate marriage? Am I worthy?

I think wrestling with that question is one of the most basic and universal parts of being human. We all just want to know that we’re worth being loved. And that we’re worth it not because of the things we’ve done, the awards we’ve earned, or the goals we’ve accomplished, but simply because of who we are.

It’s also one of the hardest things to learn as a human. If I’m honest, I’m not entirely sure I completely believe it yet. I want to. I want to know that I’m totally, completely, utterly worthy of love.

But it’s hard to feel worthy of love when you’ve never been in love, or never been in love with. It’s hard to feel worthy when you’re never chosen. It’s hard to feel worthy when someone tells a new couple “if anyone deserves love, it’s you,” and you wonder if somehow being single means you weren’t as deserving.

I know someone who periodically posts on Twitter the simple phrase “You are worthy of love.” No explanation, no context, no caveat, because none is needed. It’s a fact. Period. And every time I see it, it hits me like a punch in the gut, or a catch in the throat, because I always need to hear it. It’s easy for me to believe that other people inherently are worthy of love. Of course they are. But me? Specifically? I am worthy? That’s a concept that can be hard to wrap my mind around.

So I turn to these sweet and clean historical romances, and watch as the characters slowly accept their worthiness, and realize that they are enough, that they do deserve to be loved. I think about the fact that I am not alone in feeling this way, and that I can someday fully accept my worthiness, too.

And if it takes a titled Englishman with a townhouse in London to help accomplish it, I’m definitely not going to complain about it. 💜