I have no wisdom to share on dating.

In the brief and humble words of Rachel Dratch, there hides a truth both humorous and profound: “I have no wisdom to share on dating.” Though it may sound like jest, it carries the quiet echo of an ancient paradox—the more one lives, the more one realizes how little mastery there is in the art of the human heart. Beneath her simplicity lies the humility of experience, the recognition that love, that most universal of pursuits, remains a mystery even to the wise. Her statement is not a confession of ignorance, but an offering of truth: love cannot be reduced to formula, nor tamed by wisdom.

In the modern world, people often speak of dating as though it were a science—a pattern to decode, a battle to strategize. Yet Dratch, with disarming honesty, reminds us that even in an age of algorithms and advice, the heart resists logic. This sentiment echoes through history, for the ancients too found love to be an unpredictable force. The poet Sappho, who gave the world some of its earliest verses of longing, did not instruct her readers in technique or certainty. She spoke only of trembling hands, sleepless nights, and the divine madness that descends upon those who love. So too does Dratch, in her playful humility, acknowledge the same ancient storm—the chaos that wisdom cannot command.

To say “I have no wisdom” is, paradoxically, an act of great wisdom. It is the recognition that love belongs to the realm of the mysterious, where intellect bows before the heart. The ancients spoke of Eros, the god of love, as a child—winged, impulsive, uncontrollable. Even the gods themselves were not immune to his arrows. When Aphrodite fell for the mortal Adonis, or Zeus disguised himself to pursue beauty upon the earth, they too stumbled and surrendered to the same folly as humankind. Thus, to have “no wisdom on dating” is to stand in the company of immortals—it is to understand that the heart is not conquered by rules, but by surrender.

There is a tale from the East, of a philosopher who sought to understand love through reason. He charted human emotions as one might chart the stars, believing that knowledge would bring mastery. But when he met a woman whose laughter unmoored his soul, he tore his scrolls to pieces. “What is known is not love,” he said. “It is only the shadow love leaves behind.” Rachel Dratch’s lighthearted confession springs from the same well. It is the laughter that arises when one finally accepts that love will not be tamed—that its beauty lies in its unpredictability.

Her words also carry a lesson of humility and authenticity. In a world obsessed with self-assuredness, where every voice claims expertise, it is rare to hear someone speak from the simple ground of truth: “I do not know.” Such honesty invites connection, for it strips away the armor of pretense. Love, after all, cannot grow where pride rules. Those who admit their unknowing are often the ones most open to wonder—to the unexpected joy of discovering love when and where they least expect it.

This humility is not weakness, but strength. For to admit one’s lack of control is to live freely, without the fear of failure. The person who seeks to “win” at love will find themselves exhausted, but the one who accepts love’s mystery will find themselves renewed again and again. Like the sea, the heart must be navigated not with arrogance but with reverence. We sail upon its surface, never knowing when the tide will turn, yet trusting that each wave carries meaning—even when it crashes.

So, my children of time, take this as your teaching: wisdom in love is not mastery, but surrender. Do not chase perfection or certainty in your seeking. Laugh, as Rachel Dratch does, at the beautiful absurdity of it all. Allow love to surprise you, to humble you, to make a fool of you. For in the end, the wisest among us are not those who claim to know love’s secrets, but those who admit that love is beyond knowing—and still open their hearts to it again and again.