Does anyone else remember their first kiss?

Or am I the only idiot who thought it was going to be some kind of defining moment—like a full-blown proclamation of what love is supposed to feel like?

I waited for it. Longer than most, I think. Not because I had to, but because I had this idea in my head of what it was supposed to be. I really turned down and avoided the moment like it was a disease, just because it didn’t line up with the movie picture feeling I had in my head.

I wish that was a joke. I held out for that Princess Diaries moment. You know the one. The one where she is standing by the beautiful fountain, surrounded by a picturesque garden and fairy lights. Time slows down as they both look at each other, and there is an unspoken look in their eyes. Then the boy leans in and seals the moment with a foot popping kiss.

For fourteen years, I rejected every guy’s attempt at stealing my first kiss away, just because it didn’t have that princess-in-love kind of vibe. If only Anne Hathaway had panned the camera out to show us girls what happened after. But no, you had to wait three years to find out that Michael didn’t make it to the second movie.

He was a hopeless romantic, so I had thought. I met him at FFA camp, the first and only school camp I ever went to. It was over the summer between Freshman and Sophomore year, and man, I was excited and scared. I had never been to camp, and I only knew one girl from my school who was going. Of course, they put you in these groups to force you to branch out and make new friends.

So I was alone, having a bunch of first experiences that the majority of these kids had. I wasn’t from a farm or agricultural kind of town. This was during that short blip in my childhood where we lived in this small farm town, and the school offered FFA. I was trying desperately to be something different, something new. I didn’t know how to fire a bow and arrow. What it took to raise chickens or build something with my two hands.

I was the odd one out. Which wasn’t new, but it felt ten times more intimidating at the time. I was in a group of about 15 other kids from all over the state, and I didn’t feel like I was connecting with any of them. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure they noticed me awkwardly hanging in the back and only participating when I had to.

On the last night at camp, there was this dance. All the groups came together, and everyone was searching for that one person they had developed a crush on over the week. I sat back in a corner on a hay bale just counting down the minutes till I could bail and head back to the girls’ cabin. Then, he came waltzing through the dancing pairs to sit down on my hay bale.

He had been one of the guys in my group. Kind of awkward and nerdy, with that shoulder-length black hair all the emo kids had back then. Oddly, my type at the time. This was the early 2000s—you have to remember, those dark, awkward guys in skinny jeans and sad love songs were top tier back then. Especially for all the girls who had to wear and smile and be perfect, but secretly felt every sad lyric and alternative guitar riff.

We hardly talked, but maybe fifteen minutes before, one of the other girls in our group, who had obviously been trying to catch his eye all week, came over and snagged him. Till this day, I can’t even remember what we really talked about. But he had talked his way into getting my number, and for some reason, I left camp hoping he would use it.

Months had passed, and school had resumed. The entire time, we had texted and called each other. Sharing the real pains and details of my life. It turned out he was just as messed up as I was. It was the first crush I had where I felt he really related to what I was going through. He even worked his way up to asking me to be his girlfriend. Because back then, you could do that. Think you’re in love over a summer of text messaging, and only met once. I begged my mom to take the hour drive and let me go hang out with him. It took weeks of convincing, but finally, she agreed to take me over to his house.

We didn’t spend much time at his house. His home situation was almost as screwed up as mine, and he asked if I would like to go for a walk. We walked to this park near his house and got to be the only two there. We sat up on the wooden mega castle where kids were meant to play and use the slides. Our legs dangling off the side as we sat next to each other. I was nervous, and I could tell he was too, but not because of anything said. There was that feeling between us in that moment. The one where time slowed down, and that unspoken tension is shared as you look into his eyes, looking back at you.

He said, “Close your eyes and hold out your hand.” I could feel my heart zig-zag in loops as I closed my eyes. I felt something cold and solid go into the palm of my hand before his lips were on mine. It was soft, sweet, and innocent. The smoothest of first kisses that held on for a few seconds to turn into something more tender. The magical Hollywood foot-popping kiss moment I had been holding out for. That was the moment I stopped believing love was supposed to feel soft.

When I opened my eyes, there was a large pendant in my hand of a lion, and this intricate cross with a Celtic kind of design to it. He wore an identical one around his neck. My gushy little teenage heart ate that up. God, I wore that stupid necklace every day for months, thinking I was just the absolute shit. I was in love. Young love, and I was dedicated to keeping it whole and mine.

Spoiler alert, he was a piece of shit and mentally messed with my head in ways no one had, yet. That necklace ended up being chucked into the Independence Dam and never to be seen again.

There are rare times when I think about that moment—my first kiss. And then I think about everyone who came after him. I never held out for that foot-popping moment again. In fact, I might have been too careless with what came after.

Did I make a guy wait? Do a quick vibe check for atmosphere? Absolutely not.

I turned into the girl who said, “Go ahead and kiss me so we can get that part over with.”

It was that one soft moment that quelled my curiosity about romance.

Over time, I lost that love for romance and sweet things. It was part of this transition period in my life where I was figuring out who I would be. Today, I can’t stand sweet romantic gestures. I hate Valentine’s Day, teddy bears, red roses, sweet whisperings—all of it feels empty. That first kiss was the start of a domino effect that completely dropped a bomb on my expectations.

My parents were never into that. They didn’t walk around holding hands. My father never came home with flowers just because. They didn’t slow dance in the middle of the kitchen late at night with a love song playing. I held out, not really knowing what I was holding out for. Like I needed a movie moment to prove love could look like that—and when it didn’t, I threw the idea away. I learned what happened to Earl (if ya know, you know).

When I think back to that moment, it just reminds me how different I ended up. People who know me today would never think I was that little girl waiting for the white knight. It just reminds me how something so small, a little detail of something old you used to hope for, can be so different than what you end up being. Like a guilty pleasure that makes you feel nostalgic.

Now every time I drive past one of those wooden castle playgrounds, it puts a soft smile on my face. I have to look in the rearview mirror and say to my old self, “We needed to outgrow that dream”. It always feels like a hidden secret shared between two friends. A quiet acknowledgment passing between the eyes, looking back at me, who never thought we would ever stop wanting that.

So tell me, what small moment of nostalgia did you outgrow? That one that feels like a secret because no one would believe it belonged to you?