Last night, I was standing in my bedroom folding clothes.

My husband was cleaning off his dresser.

Nothing was wrong.

There wasn’t an argument. Nobody was upset. It wasn’t one of those big moments where something happens and suddenly everything becomes crystal clear.

It was just a normal night.

At some point, a 90s country song came on. I can’t even remember which one it was now.

But I knew it.

So, naturally, I started singing.

And somewhere between folding another shirt and singing along to a song I’ve probably heard a thousand times, I had this thought.

I want someone who will randomly dance with me to songs like this.

That was it.

Such a small thought.

But it stayed with me.

I didn’t necessarily mean that I wanted someone to stop everything, dramatically grab me, and turn our bedroom into some scene from a movie.

Although, let’s be honest, I wouldn’t complain.

It was more about what that little moment represented.

I want playfulness.

I want someone who hears me singing badly while I’m folding laundry and decides to make a moment out of it.

I want someone who reaches for me.

Someone who pulls me toward them just because a good song came on.

Someone who can be ridiculous with me.

Someone who doesn’t need a special occasion to show affection.

I want the ordinary moments to feel like something too.

And maybe that’s what surprised me so much about the thought.

Because for so long, I’ve been focused on what I don’t want.

I don’t want inconsistent communication.

I don’t want to have to ask for affection.

I don’t want to wonder whether I’m supported.

I don’t want to keep questioning whether my needs are too much.

I don’t want to live in a cycle where things get better just long enough for me to believe they’ve changed before everything goes back to the way it was.

I’ve spent a lot of time figuring out what isn’t working.

But standing there folding clothes, I wasn’t thinking about any of that.

For a few seconds, I was thinking about what I do want.

And that feels different.

I want someone to dance with me in the bedroom.

Not because dancing is some requirement for a future relationship.

It isn’t really about dancing at all.

It’s about connection.

It’s about looking across a room at someone and knowing they want to be in that moment with you.

It’s about affection that doesn’t have to be requested.

It’s about someone knowing you well enough to know that when a 90s country song comes on and you’re singing along, there’s probably a pretty good chance you’ll dance too.

It’s about being seen.

I think I’ve spent so much time convincing myself that the things I want are small enough that they shouldn’t matter.

Physical touch matters to me.

Affection matters to me.

Communication matters to me.

Being silly matters to me.

Feeling wanted matters to me.

Having someone participate in the stupid little moments of everyday life matters to me.

None of those things sound huge when you say them individually.

But maybe that’s exactly the point.

A relationship isn’t lived entirely in anniversaries, vacations, date nights, and big romantic gestures.

Most of it happens while you’re making dinner.

Sitting on the couch.

Driving somewhere you’ve driven a hundred times.

Cleaning the house.

Getting ready for bed.

Folding laundry.

Those are the moments that actually make up a life.

And I want those moments to have connection in them.

I’m still married.

I’m still living in the same house.

I’m still figuring out what happens next.

I’m not sitting here creating a checklist for some imaginary man waiting for me on the other side of all of this.

I’m nowhere near that.

Right now, I’m trying to figure out me.

But I think part of figuring myself out means allowing myself to acknowledge the things I want without immediately talking myself out of them.

Without saying I’m asking for too much.

Without deciding something doesn’t matter because it seems small.

Last night, I wanted someone to dance with me.

And for once, instead of telling myself that was silly, I let myself have the thought.

Maybe someday I’ll be folding clothes and another 90s country song will come on.

I’ll start singing.

Probably loudly.

Probably badly.

And someone will look at me, smile, and pull me away from the laundry for three minutes.

I don’t know who that person is.

I don’t know when that chapter of my life will happen.

And right now, I’m not trying to find him.

But I’m starting to understand something I didn’t expect when I started this whole journey.

Learning what you don’t want is only half of it.

Eventually, you have to give yourself permission to admit what you do.

And apparently, somewhere on my list is this:

Dance with me when the song comes on.