To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before

There’s a song, a beautifully cheesy relic from another era, by Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson. It’s called “To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before.” In a world saturated with the cynical boasts of modern-day womanisers, where past relationships are often reduced to conquests or punchlines, this song stands out. It’s a gentleman’s homage, a quiet, heartfelt hymn of gratitude for the chapters that had to end for the final story to begin. That sentiment—profound, unadulterated gratitude—is one that resonates in the very marrow of my bones when I think of the years between the cataclysm and the calm. The years between 2012 and 2015. The years before I found Amy.

The Wreckage and the Renaissance

To understand the renaissance, you must first understand the wreckage. I had married my first wife at the tender age of twenty. We were products of a small, shared world, having met in a classroom when we were just seven years old. Our lives ran on parallel tracks until, at eighteen, they finally merged. I was a boy who knew almost nothing of women, of dating, of the intricate dance of pursuit and connection. I never had a “scene.” My scene was her. For seventeen years, she was my entire world.

And then, one day, she wasn’t. She left, choosing another man, and the edifice of my life crumbled into dust. The shock was seismic. It wasn't just the dissolution of a marriage; it was the erasure of my past, my present, and what I had assumed was my future. In the ensuing legal storm, I was granted custody of our six beautiful, bewildered minor children. As if that tectonic shift wasn’t enough, my visa for the United States was expiring. My life, my home, my identity—all of it was being ripped away. I had to pack up the shattered pieces of our family and return to Europe, a continent I barely knew anymore.

Before leaving, there was a brief, hopeless flame. A wonderful Latina woman who was kind and vibrant, but our timing was a tragedy. It was a final, painful lesson in powerlessness before I was cast adrift. I had to start from absolute scratch. A 37-year-old man, a solo father to six, emotionally flayed, and utterly, hopelessly clueless about how to even begin again. How does a man like that… date?

A Fool in the Modern World

I thought I knew. You go to bars, right? You summon some forgotten swagger, you buy a woman a drink, and you let your devastating wit do the rest. What an absolute, unmitigated farce.

I look back on those initial forays into the nocturnal world of pubs and clubs and I have to laugh to keep from weeping at the memory of my own pathetic naivety. I’d stand there, nursing a drink, trying to look approachable, which probably translated to looking like a lost tourist or a plainclothes policeman. On the rare occasions I’d muster the courage to approach someone, the rejections were swift, brutal, and often laced with a quiet ridicule that stung more than any shouted insult. I was a man out of time, an analog soul in a digital world, and it was painfully obvious.

It didn’t help that my best friend, David, happily married since the dawn of time, was my appointed wingman. His advice was excavated from a bygone era, tips so spectacularly out of touch they were almost performance art.

“You need a signature item,” he’d say with utter confidence. “Like a distinctive scarf. It’s peacocking!” I tried it once and looked like a man who had lost a fight with a drapery.

“And remember the three-day rule! Never call too soon. Build the mystery!” In an age of instant messaging, the three-day rule didn't build mystery; it built a consensus that you were either dead or a sociopath. His advice was a masterclass in how to guarantee a lifetime of solitude.

After months of this soul-crushing failure, I finally surrendered. Match.com. The very idea felt like an admission of defeat. I, a man of letters and supposed charm, resorting to an online algorithm? I was above it. But my reality—a reality of six kids needing their dad and a social life that was flatlining—told me to get over myself.

So, I created a profile. And in that moment of creation, I made a decision that would change everything. I would not play a single game. No carefully curated angles, no ten-year-old photos where my hairline was more optimistic. No vague, mysterious prose. I would be brutally, vulnerably, unapologetically honest.

My bio was essentially my soul laid bare. I wrote about being a father of six. I wrote about the implosion of my marriage and my subsequent relocation. I wrote about my passions, my flaws, my hopes. I can write, and I didn't shy away from making my chaotic life sound like the grand, albeit messy, adventure that it was. But it was authentic.

The pictures were me, right then and there: dad bod, tired eyes, and a smile that had been through hell and was still, somehow, genuine. I had my self-worth. I knew I was a good man and a devoted father, and I believed that was a form of currency more valuable than a six-pack or a full head of hair. I put all my cards on the table, face up. I was looking for a queen, not trying to bluff my way into a one-night stand.

And my God, did it work.

The Freedom of Honesty

The response was a revelation. It wasn't a flood of 22-year-olds, nor did I want it to be. It was a steady, warm current of women my own age. Women with their own stories, their own scars, their own children. Divorced women who understood the complexities. Widowed women who knew the depths of grief. Women who weren't looking for a perfect man, but an honest one.

I applied my old-fashioned principles to this new-fashioned medium. I loathed the modern purgatory of endless, directionless texting. If we connected online, I suggested we meet, and soon. A proper date. A nice dinner. A real conversation.

And yes, I always paid.

The modern ‘manosphere’ would likely scold me for this, calling it supplicating or some other nonsense. To them I say: you are missing the point entirely. It wasn’t about buying affection; it was a gesture of respect. It was about honouring the time this woman was giving me, time away from her own children, her own life, to take a chance on a stranger with a complicated story.

And I loved it.

With a nanny at home to watch over my brood, those evenings were my escape. For a few hours, I wasn’t just a single dad. I was a man again, feeling the spark of possibility, the thrill of a new story unfolding across a dinner table. I felt free and alive.

Many times, it went no further than that first date. A pleasant evening, a shared meal, and a mutual, unspoken understanding that the chemistry just wasn't there. And that was fine. I never felt rejected or bitter. I felt grateful. Grateful that she had shared a few hours of her life with me, that she had opened a small window into her world. I would thank her for the evening, wish her well with sincerity, and move on. I never ghosted. I never played games. I refused to have overlapping relationships; my life was complicated enough without adding a web of deceit.

But sometimes… sometimes it did get further. A few times, the spark ignited a flame. I would feel myself falling, tumbling headfirst into the intoxicating rush of infatuation.

I’d see a future, paint a picture in my mind, and get lost in the brilliant colours of what could be. And in those moments, I was probably a fool. My heart, so long in hibernation, would awaken with a ferocious, desperate intensity. I now realise I was probably too much, too soon. I would overwhelm them with the full force of my resurrected emotions, a tidal wave of need and hope that they, understandably, weren't ready for.

The end of these short-lived romances was a unique kind of pain. It was the sting of a beautiful dream dissolving in the morning light. I felt bad for them, for having been caught in the path of my emotional convalescence. But I also knew I hadn't hidden anything. I was who I was, mess and all.

As I moved between the U.S., Malta, and Ireland in those years, the winds of change were a constant companion, blowing away the ashes and forcing me ever onward. Each woman, each connection, each heartbreak, was a lesson. They were teaching me, polishing the rough edges, preparing me for a destination I couldn't yet see.

The Calm After the Storm

Then, in the spring of 2015, something shifted. On the advice of my spiritual director, a wise man who saw I was running on empty, I decided to take a break. A complete stop. No dating apps. No dinners. No seeking.

Instead, I turned inward. I started alternate-day fasting, a discipline of the body that brought an unexpected clarity to the mind. The weight I had carried, both physically and emotionally, began to fall away. I was creating space. It was a period of profound spiritual and corporal renewal. I was clearing the ground, tilling the soil of my own soul, without the goal of making it attractive for someone else, but for me. It was exactly what I needed.

After a few months of this monastic existence, feeling leaner, clearer, and more at peace with myself than I had in years, I felt a quiet nudge. I logged back into a dating app, more out of curiosity than anything else. And there she was. Miss C. My Amy. My life changed in an instant.

But that, as they say, is a story for another day.

This story is about the journey, not the destination.

It’s a tribute.

What remains from that turbulent, thrilling, heartbreaking, and ultimately joyous period is an overwhelming debt of gratitude.

To all the women who saw a profile about a man with six children and a life in upheaval and swiped right anyway.

To the women who sat across from me at dinner and shared their stories.

To the women who let me into their lives, even for a short while, and showed me that I was still capable of connection, of passion, of love.

Thank you for taking a chance on the beautiful mess that I was. You have no idea how much you helped heal a broken man and make him whole again.

Despite the divorce and the chaos that followed, I can say with all honesty that those years were some of the happiest of my life. A happiness surpassed only by the profound peace and joy I have found in the life Amy and I have built together.

I’m not in touch with any of those women now. I am, as I said, old-fashioned. My focus is entirely on Amy, and she would rightly not tolerate a man who kept a collection of old flames on simmer.

I don’t follow them on social media. But I have heard through the grapevine that they are now happily married or in loving relationships, and this news fills me with a quiet joy. I hope, with all my heart, that when they think back on our brief time together, they treasure it in the same way I do. I hope they know the role they played. They were not placeholders; they were guides. They were the brave, wonderful, beautiful women who helped me find my way home.

To all the girls I’ve loved before, who travelled a mile or two with me:

Thank you.