I'm a bit of a romantic, to a fault. It's led me to some great

The words of Alexander Koch — “I’m a bit of a romantic, to a fault. It’s led me to some great things and also some sad things. It’s made me a better person, to keep a good spirit about dating.” — speak with the gentle honesty of a soul acquainted with both the sweetness and the sorrow of love. In his reflection lies a timeless truth: that to be a romantic is both a gift and a burden, for those who love deeply must also be willing to suffer deeply. Yet, even in his acknowledgment of pain, there shines the light of resilience — the good spirit that transforms heartbreak into wisdom. His words are not merely about dating, but about the eternal human dance between hope and disappointment, between innocence and understanding.

To call oneself “a romantic” is to live with an open heart in a world that often rewards caution. The romantic is the one who believes — still, despite everything — that love is sacred, that connection matters, that the human spirit is capable of tenderness even after being bruised. The ancients might have called such a soul a seeker of Eros, one touched by the divine fire that compels us toward beauty and truth in another. But as Koch admits, such faith is not without cost. For those who love with abandon must also face the ache of unreturned affection, the loneliness of disillusionment, and the quiet mourning that follows when love fades. Yet he does not retreat; he says it has made him better. And therein lies his greatness — not in avoiding heartbreak, but in allowing it to refine rather than harden him.

This sentiment echoes through the ages. Consider the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, the musician who braved the depths of Hades for the sake of love. Orpheus, the truest of romantics, was undone by his longing — by turning back too soon to see if his beloved still followed. His faith and his doubt existed as one, bound by the same love that both redeemed and destroyed him. Like Orpheus, the modern romantic walks the same path: daring to hope where reason advises restraint. But even in failure, Orpheus’s song endures — as Koch’s words remind us, love’s power is not measured by its success, but by the courage it takes to love at all.

To be “a romantic to a fault” is, in truth, to live fully awake — to see the world not as it is, but as it could be. It means believing in possibility when others see only imperfection. Such vision can indeed lead to “great things and sad things,” for it magnifies both joy and sorrow. Yet this duality is the essence of the human heart. As the philosopher Kahlil Gibran once wrote, “The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.” The romantic soul accepts this truth instinctively: that love’s pain is not punishment, but the proof that one has lived.

Koch’s wisdom lies in his resolve to “keep a good spirit” — a choice not to let bitterness take root. In this, he stands among the heroes of the heart, those who have walked through love’s fire and emerged tempered, not broken. To keep a good spirit is to retain one’s wonder, to forgive both oneself and others, and to face each new beginning with the same faith that once kindled the first. Such resilience is rare in an age where cynicism often masquerades as wisdom. But as the ancients taught, true wisdom is born not from withdrawal, but from engagement — from loving again, knowing full well the risk.

History gives us the example of Eleanor Roosevelt, who once said, “The giving of love is an education in itself.” Her life, marked by personal trials and heartbreaks, was also filled with compassion and idealism. She, too, was a romantic — one who believed in the goodness of humanity despite its flaws. Like Koch, she understood that love, whether romantic or universal, refines the soul. Each disappointment became not an end, but a lesson — a shaping of character. In this way, love’s failures became life’s teachers, forging empathy, patience, and grace.

The lesson of Koch’s reflection, then, is one of courage and renewal. It teaches us that to love is to risk, but to refuse love is to wither. Each experience — whether it lifts us or wounds us — is a step toward becoming more fully human. We must not let pain make us cold, nor let disillusionment silence our hope. Instead, we must cultivate what Koch calls a “good spirit” — the ability to smile at what was lost, to cherish what was real, and to remain open to what might still come.

So let all who hear this remember: to be a romantic is not a weakness, but a form of strength — the strength to believe, to forgive, and to try again. Love may bring both joy and sorrow, but both are sacred. Live, therefore, as the romantics do — with heart unguarded, spirit undimmed, and faith undying. For in the end, as Alexander Koch reminds us, it is not the victories of love that define us, but the grace with which we continue to love, even after the fall.