The one before The One

I have a theory.

Some women are lucky charms, four-leaf clovers in human form. Men meet them, fall in love, and stay forever. Others are cautionary tales, the heartbreaks that shape the men who eventually become husbands. Then there are women like me: the ones who come right before “The One.” I am the soft landing before the leap, the rehearsal dinner before the wedding feast. I am, apparently, the practice run.

I didn’t notice the pattern at first. After all, breakups are a universal language. Everyone leaves, and everyone gets left (at least once). In my case, it started happening with unnerving consistency: I’d date someone for a while. We’d go through the motions: the late-night conversations, the shared dreams, the messy arguments, the makeups. I’d invest myself, sometimes even imagine a [bright] future with them. Then it would fall apart and, within weeks or months, he’d meet the next woman and fully commit to her. It became a pattern too obvious to ignore: I was “the one before The One.”

At first, it was funny in the way that tragic things can be funny. You know, when you can’t quite believe it’s happening, so you laugh about it the same way people laugh at funerals to stop themselves from sobbing. “Oh, him? Yeah, he’s probably married now. Met her three months after leaving me. Guess I softened him up.” I’d roll my eyes, bury myself in work, and pretend it didn’t sting. But of course, it did. Being “the one before” feels like being the understudy who never actually gets to perform. You rehearse, you prepare, you carry the script in your head, and just when the curtain is about to rise… someone else steps onto the stage and takes the role.

I’d look back at old relationships and see the fingerprints I left on their growth. One became more emotionally available after me, and another learned to communicate better. Another took my business idea, ran with it and is doing really well. It’s as though I am the universe’s personal training program for husbands-to-be. Enrol with me, graduate to marriage. Lucky them. Not so lucky me.

Of course, friends tried to console me.

“You’re just too good for them.”“Timing is everything.”“Maybe God is saving you for the right one.”

Bless their optimistic hearts, but their platitudes always felt like putting glitter on a bruise. Pretty, but useless. Sometimes it’s not about being “too good” or “not enough.” It could just be the randomness of love. Still, the pattern made me wonder: did I have a neon sign on my forehead that read ‘Break up with me and meet your wife within six months’? I imagined the universe chuckling to itself, playing matchmaker at my expense. “Oh, you’re dating him? Perfect. We’ll use you to iron out his commitment issues. Don’t worry, he’ll be great—for the next woman.”

Naturally, I tried to fix it. I devoured self-help books: Attached, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, How to Be the Girl Who Gets the Ring. I made vision boards. I journaled affirmations. I tried dating apps with military-level precision. Still, I found myself left in the same position: holding the rehearsal bouquet while someone else walked down the aisle. There’s a strange kind of loneliness in being remembered but not chosen. Exes would sometimes send messages years later—“I still think about you,” “You were so important to me,” “I wouldn’t be who I am without you. Translation: Thanks for being the scaffolding, building the house, and decorating it with Pinterest-worthy flair. My wife appreciates your hard work—she’s living in it now.

But here’s where the story shifts. After enough rounds of heartbreak, you start asking yourself better questions. What if being “the one before” isn’t a curse? What if it’s… preparation? Not for them, but for me. Every man I dated, every relationship that ended with him diving deeper into commitment to the next woman, forced me to redefine what I want. It wasn’t just about making someone else ready. It was about me realising what I am unwilling to compromise on. I learned that I don’t want to be someone’s almost. I don’t want to be the warm-up act. I want to be the main event. Still, I can’t help making jokes about it. Humour is my flotation device; it keeps me from sinking. I tell people I should start a side hustle: “Date me for six months, meet your soulmate right after. Satisfaction guaranteed, or your heartbreak back.” I even toyed with the idea of sending wedding gifts to my exes: a toaster with a card that reads, “Congratulations. I was only the rough draft—she’s your bestseller.” It’s easier to laugh than to cry. But the truth is, both come from the same place.

If I’ve been “the one before The One” for so long, maybe it’s time to reframe the story. Sure, it’s painful to always be the chapter before the happy ending—but maybe I’m not a footnote in someone else’s fairy tale. Maybe I’m the author of my own. Being the one before means I’ve been brave enough to love, again and again, even when it didn’t last. It means I’ve risked vulnerability, invested my heart, and shown up fully. That’s not something to be ashamed of. That’s something to be proud of (I think). Maybe, just maybe, all those “almosts” are proof that I’m not meant for ordinary love. That my story requires a bigger plot twist, a more epic kind of devotion. What that looks like, only God knows.

So here’s where I stand: yes, I’ve been the woman left behind while my exes give the women who come after me everything I wanted from them. I’ve been the practice round, the one who made him better for someone else, but I refuse to believe that makes me less valuable. If anything, it makes me more. I’m not in a rush to be “The One” for someone who doesn’t deserve me. I’d rather wait. I’d rather be patient. I’d rather hold out for the kind of love that doesn’t need rehearsal. If and when it comes (yes, I still believe it will), it won’t feel like consolation. It’ll feel like destiny.

Until then, I’ll keep laughing at the absurdity of it all, burying myself in work, and writing essays like this one. Perhaps being “the one before The One” isn’t a tragedy. It just might be the prequel to an epic love story still being written.