“You make me want to be a better man,” says Jack Nicholson to Helen Hunt, in
As Good As it Gets. Cue hand-on-heart-esque flutterings from women all over the world simultaneously wishing their callous men would say the same to them.

Because it is so plainly romantic. It summons ideas of selflessness, true love, a giving heart.

But it isn’t. In fact, it’s a selfish phrase. And it is an insecure phrase.

I’m guilty of constantly adjusting parts of myself to suit the people I love. My yearning for their love and most importantly, approval, is the primary driver behind my wanting to be a better person for them.

This could swing both ways. You could either model yourself after solid ideals with the self-assurance that your beloved(s) would see and love you for it (and we all do the right thing all the time); or you could develop acute hypersensitivity to every cue from them, big or small—real or imaginary—and bend and buckle accordingly.

As that would connote, it’s not pretty. Eventually, you’re left drained out chasing your own tail, frustrated that piles of effort have churned little result, blaming them for it. Then yourself.

And most fruitlessly, you hate yourself even more than when you began. Because you are a lousy, useless disappointment to everyone who loves you.

Hmm. Love? Oh, right. Our original premise. Let’s focus on that again. Let’s focus on pretty daffodils swaying in the breeze. We will pick ourselves up, make ourselves better and fix all leaks.

For love, of course.

And the dance continues.