I’m a 32-year-old married mother with a healthy appreciation for snacks that can be eaten quietly while the child is not looking. I love writing, obsessively drink coffee, and I am—without shame or hesitation—deeply addicted to romance novels.
You know the kind: covers adorned with windswept hair and men whose shirts forgot how to button. Plots involving enemies-to-lovers, lovers-to-strangers, strangers-to-soulmates—all playing out in small towns with inexplicably hot mayors or on Scottish moors where brooding is a legitimate form of communication.
Now before you ask—yes, I adore my husband. He’s kind, supportive, and can assemble a piece of IKEA furniture without complaining. But he is also a man who, if I asked him what his favourite part of our wedding was, would say: “Not having it.” Romance, bless his competent and utterly practical heart, is not exactly in his toolkit.
And that, my friends, is where the novels come in.
1. Fictional Men: Now with 30% More Communication Skills!
Romance novel men say things like, “I would burn the world for you” or “Every day without you was a day I didn’t breathe.” My husband says things like, “You look nice.”
Don’t get me wrong—I’m not trying to trade one in for the other. I just appreciate the fantasy. Sometimes it’s just fun to imagine a world where your partner makes eye contact for longer than four seconds and spontaneously writes you a letter (and no, not a sticky note reminding you we’re out of olives).
2. Real Life is Mostly Grocery Lists
Romance novels give me emotional whiplash in the best way. In 312 pages, I get betrayal, longing, redemption, and someone making out in a rainstorm (without their mascara smearing into raccoon mode). Meanwhile, my life is mostly composed of making pancakes, listening to my child playing the piano against my will, and wondering if little one has pooped today.
The stakes in my house are high, but not “will the Duke of Ainsworth forgive Lady Margaret before she sails for the Americas” high. Romance novels are my emotional cardio. They make me feel things, like a Victorian widow standing at a cliff’s edge, but with better snacks.
3. The Drama Without the Damage
Reading about relationship drama in fiction is my version of recreational emotional chaos. Jealousy? Misunderstandings? Secret twin brothers? Bring it on. Because when I close the book, my real life is blissfully un-twinned. No ex-lovers showing up at the door. No tense music swelling in the background when I walk into a room.
Romance novels let me dip a toe into the storm without getting soaked. And that is an exquisite little thrill when your real-world “excitement” involves a raging toddler and figuring out what’s on the floor.
4. Predictability is the New Wild
I know the formula. I want the formula. There will be a meet-cute, a slow burn, a conflict, a moment of doubt, and then—cue the triumphant kiss and soft fade to happily ever after. It’s comforting. Like ordering the same thing at your favourite restaurant because you know it won’t disappoint.
There’s something deeply satisfying about a world where things fall apart, people cry, grow, apologise, and still get to kiss in the moonlight. I love my life, but let’s be honest—apologies here involve muttering “sorry” while putting laundry away, not sobbing confessions in candlelight.
5. Hope, in Paperback Form
Here’s the thing—at their gooey, over-the-top, chest-heaving core, romance novels are about believing in love. Not just falling in love, but choosing it. Over and over again. Even after things go spectacularly sideways.
Maybe that’s why I keep reading them, even while surrounded by mismatched socks, forgotten grocery items, and a husband whose idea of a surprise is asking me what I want to do. Because despite all of life’s minor (and major) chaos, these stories whisper that love is still possible. Still redemptive. Still worth the drama.
Conclusion: What is Love, Actually?
So no, I don’t read romance novels because I’m unsatisfied. I read them because I am satisfied—and that allows me the freedom to frolic, fictionally, in someone else’s dysfunction.
My love story may not involve torrid affairs or dukes with smouldering secrets. But it does involve a man who gets up with the child without being asked. Who lets me sleep in when I need to. Who doesn’t flinch when I say, “I would like a bookshelf.”
Romance novels don’t replace that. They romanticise it. They remind me that love isn’t always grand gestures—it’s sometimes just showing up. Again and again. Even when your wife is up at 1 a.m. crying over a fictional breakup between a vampire barista and a cursed librarian.
And that, dear reader, is worth swooning over too.
Erika Matic is currently reading a romance novel instead of folding laundry. She will regret nothing.
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