(A continuation of “Alone”)
Yesterday, I spoke about how some of us build impossible standards in order to avoid choosing the wrong partner. And as I said then, perhaps the bar we’ve set is unrealistically high.
Today, I want to make a case for companionship.
I was talking to a friend the other day about how, in youth, many men seem to have endless options when it comes to choosing a partner. But as they age, being alone does not feel like freedom anymore. It feels different. Heavier.
It reminds me of that Jack Nicholson movie. He plays a wealthy music producer who only dates women under thirty, even though he is well into his sixties. He starts seeing a much younger woman, but one night, while at a beach house, he has a heart attack. Her mother, a woman much closer to his age, ends up caring for him.
Without planning it, without chasing it, they begin to fall in love.
What he comes to realize is simple but sobering. Keeping up with young girls was never the same as building a life. At some point, fun is no longer enough. What he really wanted was companionship. And companionship is not built on novelty. It is built on friendship, consistency, and commitment.
In contrast, Dostoevsky’s White Nights gives us the image of a man without companionship.
He wanders the streets at night, not out of purpose, but out of habit. Loneliness has turned his world inward. He begins forming imagined relationships with the buildings, the streets, even the quiet corners of St. Petersburg.
Then one night, he meets a young woman who is just as lonely.
She had been raised under the careful watch of her grandmother, sheltered and limited in her experience of the world. The only man she came to know was a lodger in their home, and she gave her heart to him. He leaves, promising to return and marry her. But time passes, and his absence stretches long enough to feel like abandonment.
And then she meets our dreamer.
Night after night, they walk together, sharing their thoughts, their fears, their stories. There is an openness between them that feels almost impossible. They accept each other quickly, without pretense. Eventually, they make plans for a future together.
But then, the other man returns.
And just like that, she leaves.
The story leaves our dreamer alone again, but not unchanged.
What Dostoevsky captures so well is the human longing for companionship. One love is unfulfilled, the other is fulfilled and then taken away, but both are rooted in the same deep desire to not be alone.
What strikes me most is how quickly these two strangers accept each other.
In today’s world, we might call him strange. We might call her desperate. We would question their openness, their vulnerability, their willingness to connect so quickly.
But on those pages, it feels natural.
It feels human.
So it makes me wonder: why are we so quick to judge? Why are we so unwilling to overlook imperfections in others long enough to build something real?
In trying to avoid the wrong person, have we also made it nearly impossible to find the right one?
If this post spoke to you…
Share it with someone who might need it, too. Whether it’s a quiet encouragement or a new way of seeing things, these reflections are meant to be passed along.
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Martina Griffin is a Catholic convert, writer, wife, and mother of four. She writes about faith, motherhood, beauty, books, and the quiet ache of transformation. A lover of popcorn, deep questions, and old classics, she shares her heart at Big Bowl of Popcorn—one post at a time. Instagram | Facebook | Email Me |
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A novel about love, grief, and what is remembered and misunderstood.
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