I don't live with people, that's why my relationships last. I'm

“I don’t live with people, that’s why my relationships last. I’m not romantic. Even when I was a teenager if somebody asked if they could hold my hand I’d say, ‘No, it’s not heavy, I can hold it myself, thank you.’” Thus spoke Paul O’Grady, with wit sharp as a blade, and beneath his humor lies a profound truth about the human heart. For though the world often praises the fire of passion, there is also strength in independence, in knowing oneself so firmly that one does not lean upon others for balance. His words, though cloaked in jest, whisper of the ancient lesson that love, to endure, must be founded upon freedom as much as upon closeness.

The ancients themselves recognized this paradox. In the tales of old, there were unions fierce and fiery, but not all who clung too tightly endured. Consider the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice: his longing was so consuming that he looked back, unable to trust the path ahead, and so lost her forever. O’Grady’s laughter echoes against this truth: when we grasp too tightly, we may break what we wish to preserve. By refusing the forced gestures of romantic display, he claims a freedom that keeps his relationships alive, unburdened by the weight of false expectation.

His jest about the hand—“it’s not heavy, I can hold it myself”—is more than comedy. It is a declaration of sovereignty. For the hand, in symbol, is the vessel of labor, of action, of destiny. To say, “I can hold it myself” is to affirm: I am whole, I am capable, I do not need to be completed. This teaching is ancient: the Stoics taught that the wise man carries all that he needs within, not binding his peace to the will of another. O’Grady, in his own fashion, reminds us that the truest bond arises not from dependency but from the union of two strong souls who can walk alone, yet choose to walk together.

History offers us living examples of this principle. Think of Queen Elizabeth I, who famously refused marriage, calling herself wed to her kingdom. She was not moved by the romantic ideals that bound so many women of her age. Instead, she stood alone, unyielding, holding her own “hand” without asking another to bear its weight. And yet, her reign endured, her power unbroken, her presence commanding respect across all of Europe. She demonstrates that strength and solitude, when rightly embraced, can forge a legacy as enduring as love itself.

But let us not misunderstand O’Grady’s jest. To be “not romantic” is not to scorn love or companionship, but to resist the illusions that cloud it. Too often the world worships shallow gestures—the bouquet, the hand held for show—while forgetting that love is tested not in fleeting moments but in the long years of patience, honesty, and space. O’Grady’s creed is not cynicism; it is clarity. By refusing to perform empty gestures, he creates room for truth, for bonds that last because they are not strangled by pretense.

Thus, the teaching for us is this: cherish your independence, for it is the soil in which enduring love takes root. Do not clutch desperately for another to hold what you can carry yourself. Enter relationships not as one in need of rescue, but as one already whole. Then love will not be a crutch, but a partnership of equals, free and unforced.

The practical action is plain: learn to stand alone, to be at peace in solitude, to carry your own burdens with dignity. And when you do love, love not from lack but from fullness, offering companionship rather than dependency. For in this way, as Paul O’Grady reminds us with a laugh, your bonds will endure—not weakened by the weight of need, but strengthened by the freedom of choice.

So take this to heart, children of tomorrow: love is not the binding of hands because they are heavy, but the clasping of hands that are already strong. In such a union, there is both joy and endurance, and such relationships will not easily break.