It was snowing, of all things. Not just a dusting or a fleeting flurry, but a proper storm that painted Belfast white. In my eight years here, I’d never seen November like this—never felt the cold pinch my cheeks so sharply or watched the flakes settle so eagerly on rooftops. But there I was, trudging through the slush in a pair of Uggs, my navy checkered coat speckled with snow, and a red scarf wrapped tightly around my neck—the scarf I’d thrifted because my horoscope told me to. “Wear red,” it had said. “Red will bring you strength.”

And God, did I need strength.

The pub glowed like a sanctuary at the end of the icy street. Warm light spilled out through fogged windows, and the faint hum of chatter and laughter wrapped around me as I pushed open the heavy wooden door. Heads turned briefly as I walked in, shaking snow from my coat like a character out of some old romantic movie. For a fleeting moment, I felt the part—a mysterious woman stepping in from the cold.

But reality was quick to remind me otherwise. Underneath the wool and the thrifted scarf, I was still wearing my scrubs. The kind that screamed, long day, not enough pay. My hair was hastily tied back, my boots weren’t stylish but practical, and my heart carried the weight of a divorce that would soon be finalized.

I leaned against the bar, ordered a pint, and let the warmth of the room thaw me. That’s when I heard him.

“Look at ye, a proper princess,” slurred an old Irishman, lifting his glass in my direction. His grin was crooked, his cheeks flushed from one too many pints. He blew a theatrical kiss across the room.

I wanted to laugh, to tell him, I’m no princess. Princesses don’t juggle dental training and single motherhood. Princesses don’t wake up at 5 AM to pack school lunches before rushing to work. Princesses don’t sit alone in pubs nursing a pint, trying to forget about court dates and broken vows.

But instead, I smiled—flirtatiously, even. “Looks like you’re having a good night,” I teased.

He chuckled, raising his glass again, and the brief exchange was enough to lighten the room, if only for a moment.

I found a quiet corner and sank into it, my pint cold against my hands. From there, I watched the ebb and flow of the pub—the conversations, the laughter, the clinking glasses. And I thought about the movies. You know the ones. Where a girl like me—just a little lost, a little bruised—walks into a bar and meets the man who changes everything.

But this wasn’t a movie.

Nobody approached me. Nobody made eye contact. People were glued to their phones or tucked into their own circles. And I couldn’t blame them. Approaching someone, striking up a conversation—it’s terrifying. It takes courage.

I thought about how many of us are waiting. Waiting for someone to take the first step, to make the first move. Waiting for life to play out like a Hollywood script. But life isn’t scripted, and the people we hope will notice us are often just as scared, just as lost, just as unsure of their place in the world.

I sipped my pint and smiled at the thought.

Because maybe the point isn’t to wait. Maybe the point is to stand out, to step forward, to make the small talk, the eye contact, the difference.

As I finished my drink and pulled my coat back on, I caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The red scarf stood out, bright against the navy wool. My horoscope had been right—it did make me feel strong. Not invincible, not perfect, but strong enough to face the snow, the divorce, the uncertainty.

Strong enough to know that life doesn’t have to look like the movies to be beautiful.