At 30, I look back at my life and see how much I’ve changed. I see the lessons I’ve learned and the things that once mattered to me—things that now seem so small, so silly. But before I got here, before I learned how to let go of things that didn’t matter, there was 19-year-old me, full of fire, full of ego, and filled with insecurities that I didn’t even realize I had.

I remember one summer when I was still trying to figure out who I was, what I wanted, and who I wanted to be with. It was a time in my life where the idea of romance, relationships, and fitting into some sort of social mold seemed like everything. I thought I had everything figured out, and everyone around me was either part of the problem or the solution.

There was Jenny.

At 19, Jenny was the friend everyone had. You know the one. The girl who had everything in her head laid out, but had no real understanding of what she actually wanted. The girl who could give you relationship advice one minute and then get herself tangled up in drama the next. And yet, she had this perfect picture in her head of who she wanted to be. I’ll admit, I was like that too, but she took it to another level.

Jenny had just started using dating apps, Tinder, Hinge, all of them. She always said how she wanted to be in a relationship, how she felt lonely, and how she just wanted to have someone to share things with. So when she started using these apps, I was hopeful for her. Maybe, just maybe, she would finally meet someone who matched her.

But then came the complaints. Oh, the complaints.

It started slowly, just little things here and there. “Ugh, everyone on here is so ugly,” she would say, scrolling through profiles on her phone. “There’s no one who’s actually cute. These guys are all short, or too weird looking, or just gross.” I listened, trying to be supportive, though I couldn’t help but notice the judgment in her tone.

One night, after an hour of complaining, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Okay, let me see who you're calling ‘ugly,’” I said, half-joking but mostly curious.

She passed her phone over, her eyes full of frustration. I glanced at her likes, scrolling through the faces of guys who were all… well, normal. There were a few that I would describe as decent-looking, definitely average, and maybe even some that could be considered attractive.

“Honestly, Jenny, these guys aren’t bad,” I said, trying not to sound too critical. “They’re in your league. If you want a relationship, maybe you should start looking at the guys you’re actually matching with, not just the ones you’re dreaming about.”

Jenny, of course, didn’t take that too well.

“I’m not in the same league as these guys,” she scoffed, leaning back against the couch. “I’m way hotter than they are.”

My eyes narrowed at her, a little shocked by her boldness. “Wait, what? You’re saying you’re not in the same league as these guys? But you can’t even match with the ones you think are hot, Jenny. How is that not in your league?”

She frowned, clearly offended by my words. “You don’t understand. These guys are just average. I deserve better.”

I sat there in silence for a moment, unsure of what to say. I had always been the one to support her, to cheer her on, but in this moment, I felt frustrated. I wanted to shake her and say, “Get real, Jenny! You’re just as much a part of this world as everyone else, and you’re not above anyone!”

Instead, I said, “Jenny, come on. If you really want a relationship, stop playing games. These guys, they’re normal. You should give them a chance.”

She huffed, crossing her arms. “I don’t need someone in my league. I want someone better. Someone who’s actually attractive.”

And that’s when it hit me: Jenny didn’t just have a problem with the guys on the apps. She had a problem with herself. Her insecurities were wrapped in the very thing she was trying to escape—she wanted validation, but she didn’t realize she was chasing it from the wrong people. I could see it in her eyes; she wasn’t looking for love, she was looking for approval.

“Well,” I said, my tone turning serious. “Maybe the problem isn’t the guys on the apps. Maybe the problem is your idea of who you deserve. You don’t need to be ‘better’ than anyone to find a relationship, Jenny. You just need to find someone who sees you for who you are, not just how you look.”

Jenny stared at me, her expression softening, but she quickly shrugged it off. “You don’t get it,” she muttered, getting up from the couch and pacing around the room. “I’m just trying to get the best for myself. And you’re sitting here telling me I’m just as good as the people I’m matching with?”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. I wanted to tell her she was better than that. That her worth wasn’t tied to some superficial idea of beauty or status. But instead, I just sighed and walked away, feeling more distance growing between us.

The days that followed weren’t much better. We barely talked. Jenny continued to complain about the guys on the apps, and I grew tired of hearing her judgmental rants. It wasn’t just about the guys anymore—it was about her constant need for validation and perfection.

Finally, one night, after another argument over a ridiculous text exchange with a guy from Tinder, I had enough.

“Why do you keep doing this, Jenny?” I snapped. “You’re acting like these guys owe you something. Like you’re better than them. But you’re not! No one is! You’re just making excuses for why you’re alone. You’re the one pushing everyone away because you can’t accept who you are.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and for a moment, I saw the hurt underneath all her bravado. “I just want to be loved, Serene,” she whispered. “Is that so wrong?”

I paused, the anger suddenly draining out of me. “No, Jenny. It’s not wrong. But it’s wrong to think that love comes from being better than someone else. Love is about accepting who you are, flaws and all.”

She didn’t say anything after that. She just stared at the floor, the tension hanging in the air between us like a storm waiting to break.

And then it did.

The next day, Jenny left. She packed her things, slammed the door behind her, and I didn’t hear from her for weeks. When she finally came back, she had changed. There was a look in her eyes, a clarity I hadn’t seen before.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, sitting down across from me. “You were right. I was so caught up in what I thought I deserved that I lost sight of what I really needed. I was too focused on being better than everyone else, and I forgot to just be myself.”

I smiled, the weight between us lifting.

“I’m sorry,” she said, looking me in the eye. “I was being an idiot. You were just trying to help me, and I was too stubborn to listen.”

And that was it.

Jenny and I never went back to being the same as we were before. There was no grand reconciliation, no dramatic “best friends forever” speech. We simply grew. We both learned things about ourselves we hadn’t known before. And though the road to getting there was messy and full of drama, we finally understood that friendship—and life—isn’t about being better than anyone else.

It’s about growing together, supporting each other, and knowing that sometimes, you don’t need to chase perfection to find happiness.

In the end, Jenny and I became closer than ever. But it wasn’t just because of our shared experiences or our common understanding. It was because we had learned that true friendship—and love—comes from accepting ourselves and others, imperfections and all.