A few weeks into my divorce, a man in my long-standing men's group asked a question I wasn't ready to answer. He didn't ask what happened with my ex-wife; he wanted to know what I had learned about myself through the failure of that marriage.

It is incredibly tempting to cast a failed marriage as a story of one right person and one wrong person. Very tempting, even if I know that wasn’t true. There are always at least two people in a relationship, and I had my share of what went wrong in mine. The real question wasn't about spotting red flags so I wouldn't pick the wrong person next time. It was much deeper: who did I need to become to have the relationship I actually wanted?

I didn't have an answer for him that day. What I did have was a promise I had already made at the start of my separation: I was not going to date for a year. I needed the space to grieve what had ended, rather than masking that loss with someone new. I knew that if I covered it up, whatever remained unconscious within me would simply freeze in place, only to thaw and sabotage my future relationships when I least expected it. The question from my men's group didn't change my timeline, but it gave that year a second purpose. It wasn't just a waiting period to grieve; it was a safe space to discover what I had actually learned.

So, I started writing.

Writing what I wanted

Years prior, I attended a talk by Dr. William Miller, a developer of motivational interviewing (MI), which I had trained in. He drew a distinction that always stuck with me. Doing MI is consciously applying a clinical technique. Being MI means embodying its underlying spirit of acceptance and compassion, weaving those values into how you move through the world rather than just switching them on when useful.

I had no idea how much I was going to need that distinction.

The exercise I decided to do for myself seemed straightforward. I would write two lists for my future relationship. The first would capture the things that made my heart sing - what I wanted more of and what I wanted to preserve. The second would capture the things that made my heart go cold - the patterns, the moments, and the slow leaks I refused to live inside ever again.

I believed creating a private wish list would be easy, especially since nobody else was going to judge it. I was wrong. I rewrote those lists more times than I can count, and with every revision, the same critical voice crept in. Is this realistic? What are the odds of finding someone like this? Do I even deserve a relationship this good? How would I even meet this person?

I thought the hardest part would be identifying my desires. Instead, the hardest part was giving myself permission to want them out loud, without immediately negotiating my needs down to something smaller and safer.

Eventually, instead of trying to out-grind my self-doubt with willpower, I remembered Dr. Miller's distinction. Trying to do the work meant forcing myself to believe I deserved a great partner. Being the work required something much subtler. I had to ask myself: what would I want if I had a little compassion for myself? What would I allow myself to want if I truly accepted myself as I am?

This permission wasn't coming from anyone else. It had to come from me. That subtle shift in framing changed everything.

What I actually cared about

Once I stopped haggling over my own lists, my true needs came into sharper focus.

Initially, I thought I needed a partner who shared my exact interests. Because I am deeply invested in personal growth - reading books, attending workshops - I assumed I wanted someone who spoke that exact language.

What I actually cared about was the desire for growth itself. My now-wife, Jessica, doesn't use the phrase "personal growth" and would never describe herself that way. But she has spent years immersed in Jungian psychoanalysis, a world I knew very little about, and now we get to learn together. I realized I didn't need a mirror for my hobbies; I needed someone oriented toward the same underlying desires.

The same was true for new experiences. I love trying new things, especially food. Jessica doesn't always share my specific tastes, but she is always willing to try something before deciding whether she likes it or not. Because our preferences differ, I end up exploring restaurants and situations I would never have chosen on my own. The important overlap wasn't in our identical likes; it was in how openly we both approached the unfamiliar.

That was the profound shift the lists created. They didn't result in a rigid set of traits, but a set of core values. I wanted a dedication to working through hard things together rather than quietly giving up. I wanted someone who would express care in ways I could genuinely feel, rather than ways that merely looked good from the outside. I wanted a willingness to be direct, instead of the silent suffering that ultimately breeds resentment.

What the list was actually for

These lists were never meant to be a scorecard I pulled out on dates.

The true transformation happened through the act of writing them. Sitting with those two questions - what do I want, and what I absolutely do not want – over the course of months, forced me to be honest instead of settling for sanitized, socially acceptable answers.

Once I did that heavy lifting, my perception shifted. I began to notice much faster when someone wasn't a fit. It wasn't a dramatic, light bulb moment, but a quiet, automatic recognition. Something in me was more attuned to what I was looking for, allowing me to act sooner instead of staying in something out of inertia or misplaced hope.

The lists also gave me vocabulary. One important lesson I learned from my first marriage was: I had never been clear about what I wanted, leaving my ex-wife to guess. That is an unfair burden to place on any partner. It is not their job to read your mind. Sharing your needs is actually a gift to someone who loves you; it tells them what matters so they aren't left stumbling in the dark. It helps both people figure out, quickly and kindly, what is working and what isn't.

Jessica

When my self-imposed year of dating abstinence ended, Jessica was the second person I went out with.

Early in our relationship, she frequently asked why I wasn't interested in dating more people before deciding she was "the one". How could I be so sure without comparing her to anyone else?

Those were fair questions, but they assumed dating was a process of comparison. For me, dating wasn't a way to sample options. It was a way to search for the person I wanted to build a life with. Once I found her, there was no reason to keep looking. I had already done the work of comparison during that long summer, rewriting a list until it stopped feeling dishonest.

Later, Jessica told me something else about what drew her in during those early weeks. It wasn't just that I knew what I wanted; it was that I could ask for it without my needs becoming a demand. There is a vast difference between offering a request rooted in empathy for the receiver, and delivering an ultimatum. I had learned that difference the hard way, and apparently, it showed.

Having faith

I don't put blind faith in a piece of paper I filled out years ago while putting my life back together. There are no guarantees in love, and I cannot rerun my life to compare different outcomes.

But I do know this: I made the choice to move forward with as much awareness, honesty, and forethought as I could muster in me at that time. I didn't drift into my new life. I didn't let fear or loneliness make the choice for me. I sat with the deep discomfort of admitting what I actually wanted out loud, and I let that vulnerable honesty guide me.

That doesn't guarantee a perfect outcome, but it is the only kind of certainty I trust.

If that same man from the men's group asked me today what I learned from it all, I still don't think I could sum it up in a single sentence. I would probably just hand him the two lists.