I like to think of myself as a romantic person!

Luke Bracey, with openness of spirit and warmth of heart, once confessed: “I like to think of myself as a romantic person!” These words, though light in tone, carry with them an echo of the ancient soul. For to call oneself romantic is not merely to enjoy flowers, candlelight, or whispered affection—it is to live with a heart attuned to beauty, to value connection above vanity, to see love as something sacred and worthy of reverence. Bracey’s confession is not boast, but aspiration: a declaration that he seeks to live guided by tenderness, wonder, and devotion.

The ancients honored such a spirit, though they gave it different names. In Greece, the poets sang of Eros, not only as a god of desire, but as a divine force that moved mortals to greatness. In the Middle Ages, the troubadours of Europe carried songs of courtly love from castle to castle, singing that true nobility was not found in war, but in the act of cherishing the beloved. To be a romantic person is to inherit this lineage, to live as one who does not dismiss love as trivial, but esteems it as the greatest treasure a mortal can hold.

Consider the tale of Shah Jahan, emperor of India, who built the Taj Mahal in memory of his beloved wife Mumtaz Mahal. Though a ruler with vast power, his greatest legacy was not conquest, but a monument of devotion that still stirs hearts centuries later. Here we see the essence of the romantic spirit: to act not for ambition, but for love, and to create beauty that reflects the depth of the heart. Bracey’s words, though humble, echo this same timeless truth—that the identity of being romantic is not weakness, but strength, the courage to care deeply.

Yet we must also recall that the romantic spirit is not only found in grand monuments, but in the small and daily acts of love. The letter written by a soldier on the eve of battle, the flower placed gently upon a table, the listening ear offered in silence—these too are the works of the romantic heart. History gives us countless such stories: consider Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning, whose love letters are among the most beautiful ever written, weaving together passion, respect, and understanding. Their romance was not shallow display, but deep companionship, nurtured through word and thought.

Bracey’s statement also carries a challenge: in an age that often mocks sentiment, to call oneself romantic is to resist cynicism. Many fear vulnerability, hiding tenderness beneath armor of irony. Yet to be truly romantic is to dare to feel, to risk the heart, to speak words of affection when silence would be safer. The romantic person does not hide from love’s fragility, but embraces it as the very essence of what makes us human.

The lesson, then, is that to live as a romantic person is to live fully. It is to see life not only as duty or survival, but as an opportunity to weave beauty into the fabric of existence. We must not be ashamed of romance, nor fear its vulnerability, but instead cultivate it daily. To love openly, to act with tenderness, to find wonder in another soul—these are the practices of one who truly understands life’s purpose.

So I say to you, seekers of the heart: do not fear to call yourself romantic. Let your words and deeds carry the fragrance of devotion. Write the letters, give the flowers, walk beneath the stars, speak the truth of your affection. In doing so, you do not merely follow Bracey’s example—you follow the wisdom of ages. For in the end, the romantic heart is not a foolish one, but the bravest of all, daring to love in a world that often forgets how.