Pick the Partner Who’ll Wipe Your Ass, Not Just Kiss It
Since I look like I’m 19, naturally, a lot of my clients are young too. People tend to gravitate toward professionals who feel like their peers, so I work with a lot of single people in their 30s.
And honestly, these clients? They’ve got everything going for them.
They’re still at their physical peak—running marathons, training 3 to 5 times a week. They’re juggling demanding careers they’re genuinely passionate about. They’re successful, and the money reflects it. They have big social circles, drive nice cars, travel often, and drink fancy wine in even fancier places. They work hard and play hard.
And no—they’re not arrogant or self-absorbed. They’re actually incredibly grounded and kind. Way more likable than the stereotype that might’ve popped into your head just now.
But when they’re dating seriously—looking for someone to build a life with—there’s something I always bring up.
If my client is a woman, I’ll ask her:
Do you think this man would still be there for you if you lost your beauty? If you developed late-stage Alzheimer’s and could no longer speak? If the medication made you angry and unpredictable—if you started biting him, smashing mirrors because you couldn’t stand your own reflection? Would he still love you? Still care for you? Still stay, fully and completely, until the end?
If the client is a man, I’ll ask him:
Do you think she’d still be your ride or die if you weren’t this high-performing, in-shape version of yourself? If you lost your job, your money, your drive? If, at 60, you had an accident, started having seizures, had to take meds that triggered psychosis—if you blew thousands of dollars during manic episodes and she found you passed out in the garden, not drunk, just ill? Would she stay then? Would she love you the same?
These aren’t just thought experiments. They’re real life examples.
The first example is my grandmother. She was once an Apsara dancer for the King of Cambodia—radiant, poised, absolutely stunning. She lost her first husband, my biological grandfather, to the Khmer Rouge genocide. Later, she remarried a French sailor in Brittany. That man is the one I call Grandpa.
And for about 15 years, he took care of her as she battled Alzheimer’s.
She forgot who she was. Who we were. She became violent (that lady could throw a jab 😅), confused, heartbreaking to watch. But my grandpa stayed. And he’s not the emotional, affectionate type—but he loved her in a way I’ve rarely seen.
He told me, “She would’ve done the same for me. She took such good care of me—I never even had to lift a finger when it came to dinner. Good thing she got sick and not me, Kanica, because I would have been too heavy for her to lift me out of bed.”
The second story is from one of my therapists. She’s been with her husband for 50 years. She shares a lot, so I know some of her story. I once noticed the background photo on her phone—it was him, back when they were young. He looked like a fitness model. And I know she was stunning too.
Time passed. Life happened. His body and mind changed.
But her love didn’t.
They’re still each other’s #1. Still partners. Still showing up, fully.
As I put the final touches on my book—a collection of ten dating stories drawn from my own life—after two long years of writing and rewriting, I’ve found myself reflecting deeply on my past relationships.
Chapter 7 is about Pierre. And even though our story didn’t last (for reasons I won’t spoil), he taught me something essential—something at the heart of this article: the feeling you're meant to have when you’re choosing a long-term partner.
Pierre was, by any objective measure, an all-star. A high-level athlete with quads the size of my waist. He won the Lieutenant Governor’s Medal—which basically means he was the top student in his entire school. He somehow taught himself fluent English, despite not growing up in a big city. Then he got into McGill—one of Canada’s top universities—and graduated with a 98.5% average while being a student-athlete. He maintained a long-term, long-distance relationship through it all. After graduation, every major company in his field wanted him. By his early thirties, he was already being groomed to take over from a retiring senior executive. And the money followed. He started investing, buying real estate—not to show off, but because he genuinely needed a place to park his income.
In short, Pierre had it all going for him.
I’ve known Pierre for five years. And toward the end, as his job became more and more consuming, naturally, he didn’t keep the shape he once had. He started developing a small belly—no more defined abs. He was never skinny to begin with; he was naturally broad and solid, like a real descendant of a French colonizer—not the skinny baguette-eating Parisians. And I’d seen photos of Pierre’s father: bald with a belly. That was probably his fate too.
But my attraction to him never faded.
Pierre was still Pierre to me—because I was drawn to his eyes, his smile, his voice, his kindness, his work ethic, his sensitivity. And those things don’t disappear, unlike appearance, job titles, or income. And don’t get me wrong—Pierre was and still is a handsome man. But what I felt for him taught me something profound: Oh. This is what it’s supposed to feel like when you’re choosing someone for the long run.
I definitely wasn’t looking for that—nor did I know to look for it—in my twenties.
So if you’re out there dating while you’re at the height of your life—young, magnetic, successful—good for you.
But ask yourself this:
When all of this fades—your hair, your abs, your job title, your social life, your money—will this person still choose you?
Not just stay.
Choose you.
Will their love hold steady when life gets heavy? Will they show up when you're no longer easy to love?
Because life will take things from you. It always does.
And love—the real kind—is what remains when everything else is gone.
When clients ask me how they’ll know, I ask them to imagine this:
If you lost your body, your job, your memory—would they still choose you?
Because real love isn’t about who’s beside you on the boat in Corsica.
It’s who’s beside you in the hospital hallway at 3 a.m., signing the forms.
My grandparents (standing) alongside the King of Cambodia
Wishing you someone who stays when staying costs something ♥️
— Kanica