Reflections – Wolverine Lily

How I Published My First Children’s Book: The Elf Ninjas Save Christmas

If you’re curious about what happened before this (how I got the idea for the Elf Ninjas) you can read here.

About three years ago, while packing up for Canada, I found and old, tattered post-it with a pencil scribble: “Elf Ninjas— a story for kids.” I couldn’t recall the story at all, but I remembered writing the note, after inventing a hilarious bedtime story for my kids.

A couple days later, I woke up in Canada at 3:30 am. and I couldn’t fall back asleep. I stared at a wall as the street light crept through the half-open blinds, casting stripes across the ceiling. Everything else was dark and still.

The post-it came to mind. The elves.

But nothing else. No details about what had made my kids laugh so hard that night. My memory had completely failed me.

Then I thought: if I created a story once, why couldn’t I create another?

So I began building a snowy village in my head: How many elves? Three, just like my kids. Are they all boys? No, of course not. What are their names? What made each of them special?

I was afraid I would forget everything again, so I fished out my notebook and began writing in the dark. I could barely see the page, but I jotted down the names and the skills.

Before the morning light spilled inside, I fell asleep with three Elf Ninjas saving Christmas from pre-holiday disasters.

Within a few weeks I had a complete draft. Then a hundred revisions followed. Eventually I hired an editor who loved the story.

Then came the major hurdle for the entire process: illustrations.

I had no idea how expensive professional illustration could be. And I did not have the budget for it. I search everywhere for a professional artists, students, illustrators outside the United States—but nothing seemed to stick.

Two years later, I still had no illustrations. Eventually, I stopped even looking and, honestly, I was beginning to think the book might never happen.

Until one day someone knocked on my door.

My neighbor, a comic book artist who knew about my project, handed me the contact information for his friend—an illustrator in Mexico. The same night, I sent out an email with a manuscript, my notes, and a request for a sample illustration.

Next day I got a picture of Knox—exactly as I have envisioned him!

Although the price exceeded my budget, something told me that I have two choices: hire Marcelo to illustrate the story, or accept the fact that Elf Ninjas might never meet the children.

I hired Marcelo.

The next 18 months I became an editor, book designer, art director, production manager, publisher—and God only knows what else. I learned each task as I went. I secured copyrights, assigned ISBNs, changed my mind a hundred of times, made many mistakes and fixed them… but I did not give up.

The Elf Ninjas Save Christmas is officially published.

And I kept the promise I once scribbled on a small, yellow post it.

Illustrations by Marcelo Rangel Flores. If you want to see more of his work, visit his profile here.

The Promise on the Post-it

Humor runs in my family. My great-grandfather, my grandfather, my father, my brother and I—we all have it. Perhaps it’s been written into our DNA, making our double helix twist into a grin.

When I was little, my grandfather and I could ping-pong lines back and forth, picking at each other. He would say something with his quarter-smile and I would fire back. We kept going until we both cracked up. Those are my favorite memories of him.

I was raised on humor, and I wanted my children to thrive on it too. Fortunately, they inherited the signature strand and Izabella got a double dose.

My need for comedy follows me into everything I read, whether it’s rom-com or a thriller, I crave those moments when characters deliver sharp, witty lines. So naturally, when I began reading to my children, I searched for books that would make them laugh. I found plenty of beautiful books, meaningful books, educational books, and books advertised as hilarious. But very few could satisfy our peculiar appetite for humor. I hunted for stories that would let my children lose themselves in laughter.

At some point, without consciously deciding to, I began slipping my own jokes between the lines. Sometimes I extended a story or invented a sequel. Eventually, my children began asking me to make up stories or continue the adventures of characters I had invented the night before.

One night around Christmas, I created a tale about elves. I no longer remember what I told them that night, but the story turned their darkened room into a circus. Max, who must have been about four, bounced on the mattress, unable to contain his laughter. Nellie screamed and kicked the wall, disturbing our neighbors. I laughed so hard I couldn’t finish my own sentences—completely failing to put them to sleep.

When I finally left their room, I paused behind the door, still laughing. I remember shaking my head, thinking, “This would make one heck of a book!”

A spark warmed my chest, and a thought blazed through my mind:

Maybe I could write it?

But as I stepped into our messy kitchen and saw the pile of dishes in the sink, reality anchored me back to my life. So before getting my hands wet, I found a Post-it and wrote: ELF NINJAS—A FUNNY STORY FOR KIDS. I stuck it to the back of my bedroom door and promised myself I would write that story before I forgot it.

Since I became a mother, every idea, every project, every undertaking had disappeared beneath dishes, laundry, and everybody else’s needs. I didn’t want this one to fizzle out with the others.

But it did.

That note was covered by bags and hats—lost and forgotten for years.

Until three years ago… It found me.

I couldn’t remember the story at all. But I remembered the promise. That scribbled promise eventually became my first children’s book: The Elf Ninjas Save Christmas.

The Graveyard of Hollywood Dreams

A woman hurried across the street, dodging a man crouched in the corner, talking to himself. His hair was long, his clothes smelled, and his raspy voice mumbled something that made passersby uncomfortable. Most stare at the ground and veer away.

In Los Angeles, this is as normal as a sunny day. We call them homeless, crazy, or addicts raising tents under a freeway. But we don’t see them as what they once were: humans with big dreams.

Not all of them came chasing fame. Some escaped disasters.

Back then, there was courage in their hearts. They packed their cars or boarded a bus with a guitar. Some told their parents they were leaving their small town because there was a world out there—a place where dreams take shape. They arrived in Hollywood, seeking their big break.

It’s brave; it takes confidence. Yet, we won’t admit it, or perhaps, we never think this deeply.

But chasing dreams in Los Angeles has a lethal price tag. Undoubtedly, some made it, while others fell into the throat of this city. LA chews on dreamers, swallowing them piece by piece. Rent first. Then health. Then dignity. While the sun shines bright. And when the time and resources run out, the verdict follows: ‘they didn’t try hard enough.’

This is survivorship bias.

We hear inspiring stories from singers, actors, or entrepreneurs who slept in a car and “never gave up.” Social media is flooded with success biographies of high school dropouts-turned-icons, praising perseverance, resilience, and never quitting.

But what about the other side? The majority: the people who gave it all and still didn’t make it. Life intervened, money ran out, or timing didn’t line up.

Is the effort alone enough?
We love breakthrough tales. They are inspirational and make the world seem fair. But that’s not true; life isn’t fair. Not everyone excels from trying, and not everyone succeeds.

Cemeteries remind us of that. Have you ever walked past rows, reading names, and finding small gaps between birth and death? I ask, what’s their story? What did they dream of?

Los Angeles is a cemetery— except the names are still breathing.
The graveyard of broken dreams lives on sidewalks. In tents. In people we avoid because if we look too closely, we might recognize ourselves.

I think about this because my child wants to sing. Just a girl with a voice and a dream.
She plays guitar, sings, and… believes. I support her, drive her to lessons, and applaud from my couch.
Dreams are beautiful—I don’t want her to stop dreaming! But in LA, dreams without a backup plan are like jumping off a cliff and hoping to land on a mattress. Especially now with social media blaring, “just keep pushing indefinitely, success is inevitable.”

Is it? Really?

Having an alternate plan isn’t a failure. Proposing checkpoints or a deadline doesn’t mean quitting. It’s tracking progress instead of blindly sacrificing years and hoping luck shows up before rent is due.
What’s noble about starving for a dream when there were other ways to survive?

The happiest lives I know run on two tracks: financial stability and passion; one feeds the soul, and one feeds the body. Yet social media favors extremes: Fame or failure. It doesn’t show the middle: the people who built parallel paths. And it certainly doesn’t show the ones who disappeared.

Every soul sleeping on the street has a story. Some are still missed back at home. Some never had a home to begin with.

I want my daughter to believe in herself, knowing that her worth (or her singing) doesn’t depend on applause or validation.

Don’t let a dream kill your life. Feed your mouth before you feed your dreams. LA is full of people who believed—and paid that lethal price.

So work, create, pursue, and dream. Dream boldly— with your head on your shoulders and your feet on the ground.

Holy Tesla! I Don’t Pray.

Experts say being a mom is terrific. Days filled with hugs, kisses, and joy. Spare me! Put any of those experts in my car, and they’d choke on their theories in a heartbeat. My three kids were screaming like cockatoos in the backseat while we sat trapped in L.A. traffic. I gripped the wheel, dreaming of the beach. Tomorrow. One last ocean escape before summer ends. That’s the plan… Or at least it was until my husband ruined it.

For months, he’d had his eyes on a new Tesla. No surprise that the moment I walked in the door, he yelled:
“We are picking up Tesla tomorrow! 4 pm!” excitement spilling over every word.
“What? I told you, tomorrow we are going to the beach,” I insisted.
“No. You’ll drive me to pick up the car,” he confirmed without looking at me.

So much for relaxing in the sand, even though I desperately needed a break; now we were picking up Tesla—4 pm—the exact window to wreck my day.
The kids were thrilled. My husband was ecstatic. And I was… pissed.
I saw children’s crescent grins and asked myself: Why wasn’t I excited about a new car? I know I should have been.
Because it never mattered what I wanted. They just assumed I’d tag along, like I’ve always had. I was their 24/7 full-service robot.

The next morning proved it. Coffee reheated twice. Reading my book was interrupted by a pounding fist that demanded ‘Mommy!’ And before I noticed, I was back on duty on my supposed day off.

At four o’clock sharp, I was standing ten feet away, watching my family worship a shiny-blue beast that hijacked my Sunday. It reigned in the parking lot, staring me down, mocking my resentment. The kids bounced around in a frenzy, smudging their fingerprints across Tesla’s spotless body, while my husband walked around beaming.

A man in a blazing red Tesla T-shirt and biker sunglasses burst out. He attacked the car with a bright-yellow rag like a soldier on parade, buffing the exterior. But he could hardly keep up with my kids, who undid his work in seconds. I laughed to myself, seeing his worried face and sweat breaking out on his forehead. I wondered if I looked like this when I cleaned at home.

Instantly, the humor evaporated. I realized I envied him. He—the man wiping cars—had a paycheck, a lunch break, and the occasional ‘thank you.’ Me—a mom with a so-called fancy (yet completely useless) law degree—had none of that.
I stood in my well-tailored trousers and a silk blouse—presentable outside, but hiding swollen eyes behind sunglasses. Had anyone come close, they’d see the tears burning underneath. But nobody dared to approach. I was too damned well-composed. I stared at my family, realizing that I didn’t fit in this moment. Not in this car.

“Excuse me,” a soft voice broke my thoughts. “Do you mind taking a picture of me in my new car?” A curly blonde dude politely held out his phone. With the sun against his back and a big smile, he looked like an Inca sun god. I smiled and almost bowed. But the glare of Tesla beside him spotlit the true god on this lot.
“Of course,” I replied and snapped a few shots from different angles.
“Thank you,” he radiated gratitude. Then he slipped inside the car and pulled away.

Meanwhile, my husband asked the kids to remove their shoes before entering. Shoes lined up immediately, as if this Tesla was a temple.
“Holy Tesla,” I whispered, jaw hinged open. I was stunned. Since when? When did he start caring about shoes? At home, they tramp through the living room as if it had a built-in self-cleaning feature—another reminder that it was time to move on and begin a new life.
Reality barged in when I heard my kids already fighting about the seats, while my husband paced around the car like a lunatic, searching for imperceptible scratches.

Why do I keep calling him my husband? Maybe because, legally, we are still married, and “father of my kids” sounds too harsh, considering that we all share a roof. Yet, I was happy for him. Very happy. He’d worked hard, climbing his legal staircase steadily, each step rewarded with a raise or a promotion. And now he’s reached the wheel of his dream.

And my dreams? They’d been shot off with a silencer a long time ago.
That car was the reflection of my own grief—my life passing, my career sacrificed to care for my kids. Almost as if I looped a leash around my neck, handed it to them, and let them drag me behind, like a cow to the market.

“Congratulations on a new car.” The red shirt delivered his well-rehearsed line. I blinked in surprise. “The kids are happy,” he continued with a dry smile.
“We all are,” I lied, thinking: I hate that fucking car.
I glanced one last time and waved them off. But nobody noticed me from inside their new Tesla.

I turned toward my old, faithful Subaru, roasting in the sun, heat shimmering above the roof. The thought of driving without air conditioning made me sweat. But I didn’t care. It was twenty minutes of quiet freedom on the way home—all mine.
I rolled down the windows, let the breeze in, and turned up reggae for a perfect beach vibe.

Broken Wing and the Middle Finger

“Hello,” I answered, shutting the trunk of my car.
“I think Nellie broke her arm. She fell from a structure on a playground, and she can’t stop crying. Where are you?” he asked, urgency spilling through the phone.

In the background, I heard my daughter screaming at full volume. It was the most devastating roar I’d ever heard from her—deep and loud, like a whale, but screechier. I felt a sudden rush of heat, as if someone had poured boiling water over my head.

Damn. She’s hurt, I thought, starting the engine. I gripped the wheel tight and took off.

“I’m in the car. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” I forced the words out through my tightening throat.
“We’re waiting for an ambulance,” he said, his tone mirroring mine. “Hurry,” he added, and hung up.

My heart was pounding. I accelerated, but soon got trapped behind an old lady driving fifteen miles per hour in a thirty-five zone. I followed her while Nellie’s cry echoed in my head, louder than the speakers in the doors. How badly is she injured? What if she fell on her head?

For a few blocks, my thoughts raced at the speed of light, while my car crawled like a turtle. I was tempted to honk, but this lady probably was too old to hear it anyway. My frustration boiled inside until Granny stopped at a red light, nearly rear-ending a white Mercedes. I swerved to the right lane, hoping to pass both cars when the light changed.
A few long seconds later, I finally got the green. I hit the gas like I was auditioning for Fast & Furious (minus the fancy car.)

I looked into the mirror to see if I had enough distance to change lanes, but then I saw… a hairy arm and a middle finger coming out of a white Mercedes! Like a reversed palm tree flipping me off from the jungle of traffic. I tried to ignore the gesture. My daughter’s screams still resonated in my head so, surely, I could not care less about an asshole in a Mercedes. Yet, I was pissed. Pissed and frantic.

I wanted to be with my daughter. Shit. I was pushing past fifty! A speeding ticket now would kill me. No way, I couldn’t afford to lose a second.

I stopped at a red light and saw the white Mercedes slide up to my right. No more palm trees waving. He must’ve thought he’d lost the race to a blonde chick in a dusty Subaru, now idling for a rematch. Then the window began to roll down, revealing Mr. Asshole with dark shades and an even darker attitude.

He shook his head, adjusting his flashy glasses (or just showing them off in the most ostentatious way) and spoke: “You couldn’t wait, could you?”
Wait for what? I thought. But I hadn’t said anything—not for another three seconds.

Then I took a long breath and said two precise sentences, both of which would’ve made my mother gasp and a pirate proud.

I watched his jaw drop, the black stubble blending into his black T-shirt.

Then I winked and said: “Nice talking to you. Drive carefully.” The light changed and I drove off, leaving behind a faint, fading ‘Oh, uh…’

When I finally got there, I saw an ambulance driving off. Red lights flashing, siren wailing. My stomach turned.

I followed them to the hospital. Doctors confirmed: My angel broke her wing.

Author’s Note:
This happened a few years ago, on Max’s birthday. One I’ll never forget. 🙂

Hunter’s Moon: Phases in Life

I’ve always felt drawn to full moons. My grandma used to call me a child of the night, and I guess she was right. Last night’s Hunter’s Moon felt especially mystical, barely visible through the folding LA clouds, like the closing of a chapter. We all move through phases in life—sometimes we shine brightly, and other times we retreat into stillness, reflecting. At least, some of us do.

I used to love running at night under the full moon. Its silvery glow lit up my feet and the quiet streets, and I was captivated by it. But one night, I got hit by a car, and… well, that put an end to those midnight runs. Afterward, I embraced walks with their quiet wisdom, listening to what the night had to offer instead of sweating through it. You can spot me in the neighborhood, collecting my thoughts, often sipping hot tea. It’s the closest I get to meditation. The quiet has its own way of sparking ideas, doesn’t it?

No matter where you are, take a moment to look up. You might catch a glimpse between the clouds—maybe a thought, or even an answer to something that’s been resting heavy on your heart. These are moments meant for reflection. And dream.

Can’t Fake Happy Moments

Have you noticed that you can’t fake having a great time? Think about those photos from your happiest moments—genuine joy always shines through, right? You wouldn’t be snapping pictures if you weren’t truly enjoying yourself. Even selfies meant to show off on social media are usually taken in fantastic places or during significant events. This weekend, I experienced something that profoundly clarified this for me. As I looked at some pictures, I perceived more than just sincere smiles. I uncovered something unexpected and deeply revealing about capturing genuine happiness.

On Saturday, I went to a friend’s birthday party. For the first time in a long while, it wasn’t a kid’s party! I mean a real grown-up party! It was a small gathering of a few close friends and their children. The kids played inside a big house while the parents sat outside on the patio, overlooking the beautiful San Fernando Valley. The sun was shining brightly, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of desert flowers, making it a perfect June afternoon.

As we cracked jokes, sipped our drinks, and relaxed, we noticed the sun beginning to set. It seemed like the ideal time to watch it from the surrounding secluded rocky-desert landscape. We decided to go for a short hike around the property. The lone-standing house was at the top of a mountain with no neighbors nearby. The air was crisp, and our giggles echoed in the vast, open space. As we ventured out to watch the beautiful sunset, we climbed some rocks and snapped a lot of amazing photos. There were more jokes and lots of laughter.

Today, I looked at the photos, and surprisingly, almost all of them turned out great! Even the group photos show big smiles, lots of teeth, and glowing eyes! I was amazed by how genuinely happy everyone looked. There was no major posing; the photos captured spontaneous moments of delight. It was exceptionally wonderful! I realized that genuine happiness is unforced and naturally caught in moments of joy. It cannot be fabricated! It is evident in natural, unrehearsed expressions and interactions.

Reflecting on these moments, I recognize their preciousness. In a world where so much can feel staged and superficial, it’s the authentic experiences that truly matter. Our photos are not just images; they are memories of laughter, connection, and real fun—not meant to show off or impress anyone. They remind me that the best moments in life are often the simplest, shared with those we care about most. They allow to appreciate the value of spontaneous joy and genuine connections. Don’t let these moments slip away. Recognize and cherish them, for they serve as luminous lighthouses radiating strong and bright in our ordinary, sometimes dark days—the true highlights of our lives. Sometimes the simplest and ordinary points in time are the most amazing ones!

My Dream House: More Than a Dream

I always wanted a house. It was my sweet dream, like it is for many people. In our society, a house is seen as the ultimate benchmark of success: the bigger the house, the more prosperous you are believed to be. But is that really true? Can the size and appearance of your house truly measure your wealth? We often see only the surface, valuing material accomplishments. But what if there’s more? How do we measure happiness, quality of life, or success? Perhaps we should look deeper to see the hidden dimensions of fulfillment.

For years, I dreamed of owning a house. Like a blindfolded person, I focused on it without questioning why. I never thought about the location, layout, or design. I just wanted a house. Why? Maybe because, since childhood, I heard my parents talk about building a house (they never did). I didn’t want a mansion—the bigger the house, the more mess to clean up, right? But I wanted more space from my kids, and for them to have space from each other. So, while I had a place to live, I also had a dream. Until one day, I actually thought about it.

During a recent trip to Poland, I had to spend five days in Warsaw. A relative offered us one of her houses just outside the city. It was newly built and still unoccupied. We accepted the offer.

The house was perfect. When I walked in, I could smell the polished wood floors. The hallway led to an open living room, dining room, and kitchen—a grand-royal dance floor where I could glide between the counters. Warm light spilled into the space through enormous windows. In the living room, Victorian windows with elegantly folded beige curtains overlooked the backyard. The stairs led to four bedrooms upstairs. Then there was the attic—the coziest space in the house, filled with the owner’s musical instruments and boxes of books. It was small, with slightly slanted walls to accommodate the roof, yet warm and inviting. Golden light filling both rooms through skylights. I immediately thought about sipping warm tea on a cold winter evening.

The next morning, I got up at dawn. The world was still asleep. I quietly made a cup of coffee and stepped outside onto the wooden deck. The air was cold, moist, and refreshing. A thin fog sat on the soft grass like a carpet out of a Shakespearean play. The sun was rising behind the hill. I took a few lazy steps and soaked my bare feet in the dew-covered grass. You don’t get that in LA. It was peaceful and quiet, but not silent. A few birds kept me company from a distance. I wished my kids were there to see it, but I didn’t want to wake them. I sat on a chair and enjoyed the magnificent morning. The cold was getting to me, but strangely, I didn’t mind. I curled my legs, hugged my knees, and had another sip of hot coffee. That was enough to keep me warm.

As I sat there, I thought about the amazing house and the gorgeous view. This was a perfect house—ideal size—just what I wanted without realizing it. I was literally living in my dream! Just a few miles away from a big city. What else could I want?

Yet something was missing. I thought of my tiny, cluttered apartment in Glendale, and morning visits to Panera. It had been many days since my last workout—I missed my gym. I thought of my people. Instinctively, I picked up my phone and texted my friend, “Greetings from Poland.” She immediately replied, “Please, come back soon, we miss you.” My heart jumped. I hadn’t realized how close we had gotten over the past few months. I missed them too. Here I was, about 100 miles away from my parents and brother— my immediate family. Yet, I missed my friends. Pathetic, I thought. But my mother hadn’t called me in years—not once—to ask about the kids. Yet, she’s my mom, and I love her. She had a heart attack over a year ago and I had been looking forward to seeing her since. Now, when I am finally here, I couldn’t wait to go back home! I missed those tiny glimpses of my boring everyday life I disliked so much! But somehow, this is the world I have built for myself. I could do little things I enjoyed, even for a few minutes. This beautiful house I was in was far away from everything. No gym nearby, no coffee shops, and definitely too far from friends and the beach!

A dream house is just that—a dream. It’s an illusion and distraction that blurs our present. While it’s important to have dreams and pursue them, it is far from living in the moment. My dream house was an idea I loved in my head. However, reality has both sides. Unfortunately, in our dreams, we only see the positive. And that is not real.

I still want a house, but I now see it through the prism of ordinary life, bending my perspective on its value. The dream house is just one color of the dispersed light. Meanwhile, the other colors represent other aspects of life. If you focus only on one color, you miss out the rest–the beautiful rainbow.

So, cherish the things that truly matter and bring meaning. Make each smile count because, after all, the tiny moments make up our life, just like many colors make up the rainbow. Remember them. After all, true prosperity is measured not by the size of our homes but by the richness of our lives and the memories we create.

Love Dilemma: A dispute between Heart, Brain, Logic, and Instincts

“Marry the one you love,” said the heart confidently. “If you listen to me, then you will know who and when.”
“No,” said the brain. “Your heart is deceitful. Marry the person that is right for you.”
“How do you know who is right?” I asked.
“The right man is a good man. He treats you well and will take care of you. You will have a good life with him,” assured the brain.
“But what about love?” I asked the brain.
“Love is an abstract concept, undefined,” answered the brain. “It can be learned through years of mutual respect. This path provides stability and security, essential for a long-lasting relationship.”
“What about passion, the intense feelings that make my heart race, and the sensuality that brings us closer?” I asked curiously.
“Do what’s right for you. Feelings are deceptive,” reassured the brain. “Passion and sensuality can fade, but respect and understanding grow stronger over time.”
“How do I know what’s right and what’s deceptive?” I asked, confused.
The brain did not answer.

“Let me ask my guts,” I said, seeking clarity.
“Marry the one you love, my dear,” said Guts. “You can’t learn love; you have to feel it. Following your heart brings happiness, joy, and deep emotional fulfillment.”
“Guts, but what if he doesn’t love me?”
“There is nothing you can do about his feelings,” Guts said gently. “If you love him but he doesn’t love you back, it will break your heart. Are you ready to take this risk, my dear?”
So I asked my heart, “Are you ready to be broken?” But my heart remained silent.
Then I asked my brain, “Can a life without love still be happy?” But my brain gave no response.
“I don’t know what to do!” I cried in despair.

Then Guts continued, “If you listen to your brain, it’s a wise decision, but your heart will be empty. Stability and security come with this choice, but you might feel unfulfilled. If you listen to your heart, then you might get hurt. Love and passion bring joy, but also vulnerability. So if you go with what I tell you, you’ll find a balance between emotion and logic, guiding you towards what feels right.”
Guts went on, “Listen to your heart’s calling. Consulting your brain means marrying for reasons other than love. Ultimately, the decision is yours. Trust your intuition to balance both perspectives.”

I did not follow my guts. Now, I find myself at a crossroads, wondering if the path I chose was truly the one meant for me. The puzzle of love, logic, and instinct continues to shape my journey, a riddle we all face regardless of gender. We make mistakes, our choices sometimes lead to heartbreak, or things turn out differently than we expected. Yet, we search and follow love again. These internal battles and the lessons we learn from them make us more empathetic and wise. Ultimately, if you choose logic, you may find yourself longing for love, as I am now. When children come into the picture, it can be difficult to turn things around, but these experiences further enrich our understanding and meaning of love.

❤️

How to Determine if She’s Single: A Gentleman’s Guide

Imagine this: you’re at a cozy coffee shop, exchanging glances with an intriguing stranger. There is something about her—the way she smiles into her book or holds her mug— that quickens your pulse. Tempted to approach, you hesitate… There is one burning question holding you back: is she available?

Not long ago, a guy in a gym approached me with an intrusive yet direct question: “So, are you single?” Although I admired his boldness, I must admit that given our previously limited interaction, the abrupt bluntness of his question caught me off guard. At the same time, it made me wonder, “Could there have been a better, perhaps more accurate, way to approach this?” Indeed, there might be a more nuanced strategy worth considering. So, how should one investigate a girl’s relationship status in a respectful manner? Let’s delve into that.

First and foremost, asking such a personal question directly signals your interest in her. Is that truly your intention? While showing interest is perfectly fine, it’s often better to establish some level of acquaintance first. Avoid diving into personal questions too quickly; if she finds you approachable or attractive, you already have an advantage. She will be more likely to engage openly in conversation. However, if she perceives you as unappealing, if she’s shy, or simply lost in her thoughts—as I often am—a subtler approach is advisable. Start by establishing a basic connection; exchange a few sentences to ensure she doesn’t feel threatened or intimidated. If you immediately start with personal inquiries, she might think you are only after one thing. If a more meaningful relationship is what you’re after, taking the time to get to know each other—even through a brief conversation—can naturally lead to discovering shared interests and, perhaps, whether she is interested in you too.

Next, don’t assume she will truthfully answer your questions just because you asked sincerely—it’s always a gamble. Even if she is unattached, she might dodge the “are you single” question to maintain boundaries and, sadly, get rid of you! Don’t cut yourself off prematurely. Engage in a little chat, listen attentively, and observe subtle cues. Some women may casually mention their relationship status during discussions. Others like to boast about their boyfriends, signaling disinterest in other guys. Be attentive, and you might glean valuable insights about her life and preferences. Also, be cautious and don’t overwhelm her with too many personal questions. I hate that! It’s so invasive! I believe most girls would agree with me, so it’s wise to limit yourself to one or two questions per encounter.

Another scenario to consider: What if she’s in a “crappy” relationship? What if her saying, “I am not single,” doesn’t tell the whole story? She might be somewhat “tied” to someone but physically and emotionally disconnected, perhaps awaiting a way out. In that case, you, dear reader, might unwittingly become her ticket out! But be careful; you could end up being just a “rebound guy.”

Men often step back when they discover a woman is taken. I find it classy and respectful. However, let’s not assume all relationships are strong and fulfilling. Many women find themselves in relationships that aren’t harmful but are far from healthy or ideal so, it’s not always urgent to leave. See what I mean? It’s impossible to break something that’s already broken. Rather than disrupting, you could play a constructive role in a relationship that’s already unstable or dysfunctional.

Ultimately, if your feelings for a girl are genuine, why not pursue them? If your heart or gut, tells you there is something there, then why not explore it further? It may be worth the risk. Stop anticipating and chewing on your fingernails. Make a move! Girls appreciate confidence in a partner! I, for one, value assertiveness and support. Don’t give up too easily; let her get to know you. Show her your authentic self over time, and allow the connection to develop naturally. Don’t be embarrassed to show your vulnerability—it isn’t weakness; it’s a sign of humanity. Girls like to feel needed too, so let us take care of you. Let her see that you’re willing to invest in something meaningful.

I believe that a strong and healthy relationship can withstand any challenges. If a girl (or a guy for that matter) is truly committed, nothing can break that bond.

But, what if she is absolutely not interested? Then you thank her for her time and move on. Remember, you do not know her feelings and intentions until she clearly and unequivocally communicates them to you. Don’t make incorrect assumptions. Nonetheless, if she says “no,” you will still live, and you will be just fine.

In summary, if you feel compelled to ask about relationship status, do so with tact and respect for her boundaries. Rather than a blunt “Are you single?” consider a more delicate approach. You could express interest in getting to know her better and ask if she’s open to meeting up sometime. This approach not only allows for a more natural progression of the conversation but also demonstrates your genuine interest in her as a person, regardless of her relationship status.

Returning to my story, can you guess how I responded to the guy? If you get it right, I’ll buy you a coffee! 😉