Valentine's Day is built on a very specific image of adult romance. Candlelit dinners. Fancy restaurants. Bouquets of roses. Conversations about the future over wine. For a lot of us — people with age dysphoria, permaregressors, adults who still feel like kids inside — that image doesn't fit. It's not that we don't want love or connection. It's that the script for how adults are supposed to do romance was written for people who feel like adults. And some of us don't. Some of us feel like a twelve-year-old who got handed a reservation for two and told to act sophisticated.
I'm twenty-four. I've never been in a serious romantic relationship. I'm not sure I want one — or at least, not the kind the Valentine's Day industrial complex is selling. The idea of a candlelit dinner where I'm supposed to make sustained eye contact and have adult conversations about the future makes me want to shut down. That doesn't mean I'm incapable of love. It means the format doesn't fit my brain. And I'm not the only one.
The Problem With 'Adult' Romance
The standard model of romantic love assumes two autonomous adults performing mutual independence. You're supposed to be equals — both fully formed, both capable, both choosing each other from a position of strength. But what if you don't feel like a fully formed adult? What if part of you still needs the kind of care and softness we associate with childhood? What if the love you want isn't a partnership of equals so much as a relationship where you can be small sometimes and still be loved? Those questions don't fit the Valentine's Day script. But they're real questions. And they don't mean you're broken or incapable of love. They mean you need a different kind of love than the one the commercials are selling.
Redefining Romance for People Who Feel Young Inside
Romance doesn't have to look like a wine dinner. It can look like: watching cartoons together under a blanket. Building a LEGO set on the living room floor. Going to a toy store and picking something out together. Exchanging stuffed animals instead of roses. Writing each other notes with doodles in the margins. The romantic part isn't the activity — it's that you're doing it with someone who sees you, who doesn't expect you to perform adulthood, who lets you be exactly as mature or immature as you actually are. If you have a partner who understands that you still feel young inside — or if you're looking for one — know that the relationship you want is possible. It just might not look like the ones in the Valentine's Day ads. That's okay. The ads were never about real love anyway.
If You're Single and Feeling Left Out
Valentine's Day can be brutal if you're single and struggling with age dysphoria. It reinforces the idea that romantic love is for adults — real adults, the kind who have it together — and that if you don't feel like one, you're excluded. You're not excluded. You're just outside the target demographic of a greeting card holiday. Buy yourself something soft. Watch your favorite comfort show. Treat yourself the way you'd want a partner to treat you — with gentleness, with patience, with no pressure to perform. Being single on Valentine's Day isn't evidence that you're unloveable. It's evidence that you haven't found someone who fits yet. And someone who fits is worth waiting for — even if waiting means several more February 14ths with your stuffed animal and your comfort media. That's a valid way to spend the day.
When the Day Itself Triggers You
Even if you skip the restaurant dinner and the pressure to perform, Valentine's Day can trigger age dysphoria in ways that have nothing to do with romance. The imagery everywhere — couples holding hands in ads, engagement announcements in your feed, friends posting about their 'adult' date nights — can make you feel like you're watching a party you weren't invited to. Like adulthood is a club with a dress code, and showing up with a stuffed animal and a comfort show doesn't meet it. That feeling isn't evidence that you're broken. It's evidence that the culture has a very narrow idea of what love and adulthood look like, and that idea was never meant to include people like us. You don't have to fit the image to deserve connection. You just have to find the people who don't need you to.
A Self-Compassion Practice for February 14th
If the day is getting to you — if you're scrolling past the couples and the rings and the candlelit everything and feeling like you're on the outside of something essential — try this. Put your phone down. Find something soft — a blanket, a plushie, your pet if you have one. Remind yourself, out loud if you can: the kind of love I want doesn't look like the ads. The kind of love I want makes room for all of me — including the parts that feel young, the parts that need softness, the parts that don't know how to perform romance. That love exists. People find it. And not having found it yet doesn't mean you won't. It means you haven't settled for a version of love that asks you to hide half of who you are. That's not failure. That's discernment.
How to Spend the Day (If You Want to Reclaim It)
Some people ignore Valentine's Day entirely — and that's valid. But if you want to reclaim it, here's how: redefine it. Make February 14th about the love you do have. The friend who checks in. The pet who doesn't care about your age dysphoria. The online community that gets it. The relationship with yourself — which, if you're still here, still trying, still being honest about who you are, is worth celebrating. Buy yourself the thing you'd want a partner to buy you — the stuffed animal, the LEGO set, the soft blanket. Make yourself the meal you'd want someone to make for you. Write yourself the note you'd want to receive. You're allowed to give yourself the care you'd want from someone else. That's not sad. That's reclamation. And the people who get it — the ones who would buy you the plushie and not the roses, who'd rather build LEGOs than go to a wine bar — they exist. They're out there. Some of them are reading this right now.
— Michael
About the Author
Michael was diagnosed autistic at five and non-verbal until they were five. They work at an independent bookstore where they run the entire ecommerce operation. They live in Virginia and are still figuring out what love looks like when you've never felt like a grown-up — and they're okay with that.
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