Looking back on the two decades (give or take) that I’ve been dating, I can only really remember one Valentine’s Day. It’s the V-Day I spent with Tim W., this Australian kid that fell fast and hard for me over the summer of 2010. When I think about that Valentine’s, it comes back to me in a series of clear-as-day snapshot moments.

Let’s say you’re on a really great date. You go out for dinner and have a blast getting to know one another; laughs are shared, the conversation flows easily, and just the right amount of intimate details get peppered in. Now the conversation comes to a natural lull — not the awkward kind that begs to be filled, but the nice kind, the kind that feels like the period at the end of, “I like you.” You grab the check, but you’re not ready for the night to end.

I’ve felt my fair share of jealousy — that stabby, sinking feeling which is a confusing mix of anger, fear, and shame. I’ve let jealousy sneak under my skin and make me feel badly about myself. I’ve even let jealousy guide me away from certain friendships or partnerships that I might’ve otherwise deeply enjoyed. Based on these negative experiences with jealousy, I’ve often wondered whether, if given the choice, I’d choose to live a life where I never felt a shred of it.