I’m 26, and I’m in love. The last time I was in love, I was 16.

Despite the most obvious question about how I fell in love again and my lengthy love hiatus, I have not been without romance; there have been affairs of mild affection, plenty of random shags and WhatsApping wastemen in abundance (no offence, lads). At the time, I thought I had real feelings, but in reality, proper love was absent; like a fat-free pudding, those relationships lacked the most vital ingredient.

The last time I had a boyfriend, I was a teenager; I wore push-up bras from Primark, I drank cider in the park, and I lived with my parents. A lot has changed; these days, I have a good career, I wear normal bras and I no longer drink cider in the park (I drink lager). The most vital difference is that I like myself. I don’t feel obliged to straighten my hair with Ghds in an attempt to look like Cara Delevingne. I don’t try to remove my stretch marks. I’m secure with my cellulite, my sense of self and my sex appeal.

There’s much vulgarity and triteness in the world of female liberation and empowerment. The term boss-ass-bitch is one of the more nauseating, especially when illustrated with hot-pink graphics. But I like the attitude behind it, and I also like reading Linda in New Orleans in the comments section telling us she “don’t need no man”. Go off, babes—you’re right! I don’t need a man either.

But during my early twenties, I took that sentiment too far. I was set on being single, self-sufficient and without love; I planned a life where I would become a powerhouse in my thirties who wore tailored suits and bought my own yacht with my boss-ass-bitch money. But if I’m being honest, while I didn’t need a man, I probably would’ve quite liked one. I was just scared. My first break-up messed me up badly; I cried for two months straight, smoking endless spliffs while replaying Lauryn Hill MTV Unplugged until my dad shouted up the stairs to “change the f**king song!!!”. I wanted to run a mile from ever experiencing heartbreak again, so I avoided love altogether.

But then, a few months ago, a man came along, and before I knew it, I was asking myself how I fell in love again. Turns out, being in love isn’t too bad. In fact, it’s quite nice, because it’s completely different from the love I knew as a teenager.

Initially, it was confusing, and I questioned whether it really was love. Why wasn’t I crying every night out of fear that he would leave me? Why wasn’t I thinking of him every second of every day? Why wasn’t I sacking off all my hopes and dreams to live with him and his parents? My world didn’t come crashing down when he didn’t reply to a text immediately, either, nor did I have to blast Back to Black through my iPod Nano every time we had even the smallest argument.

Slowly, though, I began to realise that adult love doesn’t need to make my heart burn like a shot of Glen’s Vodka straight from the bottle. Instead, it can be like the warm, contented feeling you get in your stomach after a big glug of Burgundy.

I don’t depend on my adult lover for much, other than nice sex and good times. I understand now that a boyfriend shouldn’t be everything to me, that my relationships with other people can’t be neglected. At the risk of sounding like a chick-flick airport book: my female friends are and always will be the people in my life who dig me out of the shittiest shit (along with my parents, who are constantly helping me solve the myriad problems that arise in the course of my onerous existence).

Grown-up dates are also different, in that they’re actually romantic. I have money and a sense of decorum now—I can go for dinner or to a pub instead of rotting in bed for hours asking my boo questions like: if you really loved me, why wouldn’t you murder everyone you know to save me? And then there’s the sex. There’s no performative pornstar posing, no horny hesitation these days. Just two adults, doing adult things.

Make no mistake: I’m still scared of love, I still overthink things, and I still ask my women friends dumb questions about relationships that they can’t answer, but that’s fine, because it’s a healthy degree of uncertainty—like being the right amount of drunk, where you feel warm and giddy, not the panicky kind of drunk, where you’re deciding whether or not you’re going to puke. I don’t know if my adult love will last. If it doesn’t, I’ll be heartbroken, sure, but I’ll be fine.

After all, I’m a grown-up woman with fine prospects, a good arse and serious plans to buy a yacht.

This article first appeared on Vogue.co.uk

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