“If you don't mind me asking... why haven't you dated much?” Someone I was seeing in April asked me this, and I replied with my usual: “Oh, I just don't feel the pressure to have a partner.” Afterwards, I couldn’t escape the feeling that this was only a half-truth. And if it was true, I wondered how it related to the other influences on my minimalist romantic life. Why haven't I ever felt concerned about the absence of romance the way others do?

Existing as a fat, bisexual Indian woman in Aotearoa, I’ve always felt that I’m balancing on the edge between being undesirable and fetishised, desperate not to fall into the chasm on either side. For a long time, this made me resistant to dating altogether. It wasn’t until I was in London a few years ago and went to a club night called PXSSY PALACE, created by and for Queer people of colour, that I felt seen and desired in the way that I wanted to be. The ethos behind this club is the opposite of a night on Courtney Place in Pōneke – I had never felt joy and community like I did in that room full of Black and Brown Queers. But even this life-changing experience didn’t crack open any unrealised longing inside me for a partner.

Then, a few months ago, I came across a quote by Ocean Vuong that resonated with a part of my subconscious I hadn’t yet tapped into:

Questioning “Is this enough for me?” sparked a new phase of self-realisation in my life. How had a culture that idolises the white, thin and straight body demanded that I create my own alternative routes to love?

While I was in the thick of figuring this out for myself, a friend lent me The Ethical Slut by Janet W. Hardy and Dossie Easton. A beginner’s guide to polyamory, Hardy and Easton’s thoughtful, open approach to love was revelatory, affirming some of the innovations I was beginning to define. What resonated with me more than anything was feeling at odds with what they call “the blueprint handed down by the greater culture”.¹ Being Queer has meant that I have always experienced this disconnect to some extent, but as I’ve become older the distance between how I imagine my future and what others expect of me has only grown.

Not all Queer people are looking for alternative routes – a baby and a spouse don’t negate Queerness. Yet in untangling my own desires and dreams, and asking whether this is enough for me, my bisexuality underlies my answer, “No.” I don’t fantasise about having a traditional relationship, introducing someone to my family or sharing a home with them. For me, these don’t define romantic fulfillment. Even though I am now open to romantic love in a way I never have been before, this openness draws on vulnerability rather than longing. I am comfortable enough in myself to connect with new people, but I’m not hung up on what those connections develop into.

By choosing to diverge from cultural expectations, I imagine my future being shaped differently by love. I love and am loved deeply. I have lived my adolescence and young adulthood with a group of women that I am completely in love with. And it is being in love; these aren't passive relationships that act as a stop-gap while I wait for ‘the real thing’. They give me everything, and I have always imagined my future with them.

When my mum almost died in August last year I looked for love and care from my closest friends. And they provided it; through daily check-ins, food and debriefs, they were always in the loop and always keeping me in mind. I couldn’t have survived that time without their love, but I also knew that I could rely on them to give it to me freely. Despite their own problems and frantic schedules, I was secure in knowing they would be there to hold me up and keep my head above water.

The most profound part of this love, though, is sharing in each other’s joys. A friend of mine is having a rainbow baby,and when she gave me the news I very publicly and happily cried. One friend sat in my kitchen as I cooked dinner and we riffed ideas for her master’s project, another friend factors me into her plans about where she wants to relocate overseas. It’s in the small joys, too; listening to the itinerary for a sister’s return from Australia, dissecting a first date, flicking through pictures of a new crochet project, laughing to the point of tears. On National Poetry Day in August, a new and beloved friend sent me a poem with the message “I’m sending poems I love to people I love!” These everyday and extraordinary acts of love shape my life and make it worth living. It’s because of these women that I have never felt deprived of love.

Friendship is life-sustaining. Rather than investing all of my hopes and desires into one partnership, I have a network of deep connections and community that fans out around me. I feel protected and secure knowing that there are many people who I get to experience my life with, and that we continue to choose to prioritise one another.

People often react cynically to this kind of declaration – wait until your friends start having partners, children, homes, careers, then you’ll see how frail friendships are. But envisaging a future with anyone requires investing conscious effort and care. Any relationships that are taken for granted become vulnerable when dynamics shift, unable to absorb the impact; romantic partners aren’t guaranteed to last simply because they involve children and houses. Knowing that priorities change and our responsibilities ebb and flow means we are better equipped for weathering whatever comes next, whatever form this change takes.

I think about it like this: my phone home screen is a picture of my friend Rachel and I walking ahead of our friends, side by side, her in a two-piece suit and me with my hands held behind my back. Whatever phases of life we spend together and apart in the meantime, I can visualise this same scene playing out in 50 years.

For many of us whose lives diverge from the mainstream – living differently than our parents choose to and not desiring the same things as those around us – it’s not always clear what we can do to create our own happiness. That’s also the beauty of living without a blueprint. As Hardy and Easton say, “You write the script, you get to make the choices, and you get to change your mind, too.”² Romantic love doesn’t have to be our life’s purpose: have the curiosity and desire to expand what love means to you, and what a life of love looks like.

This essay is featured as part of Issue 07: Aroha, guest-edited by Natasha Matila-Smith. Click here to read other published essays in the issue!