Let’s get one thing straight: I’m not ashamed of loving romance novels. Not even a little. Not even when people roll their eyes and act like reading about love, yearning, or – heaven forbid – happy endings is somehow intellectually inferior to the latest 800 page “sad man wanders through existential crisis and calls it literature” novel.

I refuse to apologize for the one genre that has never once gaslit me, ghosted me, or killed off the main couple just to prove a point. Romance novels understand the assignment.

The reason romance gets dismissed isn’t because it’s bad – it’s because it’s feminine. There are some people that think anything made by women, for women, or about women’s desires couldn’t possibly be “serious art.” Meanwhile, a man writes 400 pages about cheating on his wife and staring at the sea, and he gets a Pulitzer.

It Started With A Library and Beverly Jenkins

I fell into romance the way most people fall into actual love – accidentally, headfirst, and way too young. I discovered Beverly Jenkins in high school, and that woman single-handedly rewired my brain chemistry.

Here was a Black author writing historical romance that wasn’t just about corsets and candlelight – it was about survival, joy, and passion in a world that often tried to deny those things to her characters. Jenkins gave me love stories with characters who look like me, that existed in a rich, complex history beyond the same five white dukes in England. She said, “Yes, there were Black women doctors, scholars, teachers, cowgirls, and librarians, and oh, by the way, they fell in love too.”

Reading her books felt like watching history bloom in color. I would close the pages feeling both swoony and powerful. Beverly Jenkins is the reason I side-eye anyone who says “romance has no substance.” Baby, for a moment, those books and other just like them carried the entire genre on their backs.

Then Came the Modern Menaces

Fast-forward to adulthood, and suddenly I’m reading Hannah Grace’s Icebreaker – and that’s when I realized romance has evolved right alongside us. You’ve got figure skaters, hockey boys with anxiety, open communication, and sex scenes that could make your Kindle overheat. We’ve gone from stolen glances across a ballroom to shared playlists, therapy references, and “touch her and die” energy.

And honestly? I’m obsessed.

Romance novels today are giving us the emotional complexity the world keeps telling women we don’t deserve. They’re about connection, consent, healing, and rediscovering joy in messy modern life. Whether it’s small-town slow burns, queer rom-coms, or fantasy epics with dragons and divine-level sexual tension – romance says, “Hey, what if love isn’t weak? What if it’s revolutionary?”

My Inner Disney Princess Is Feral

And yeah, I fully blame Disney for my hopeless romantic tendencies. Those animated musical trained me early. I was out here at age six, twirling in a blanket cape, convinced my soulmate was going to appear via musical number and a plot twist.

Disney said, “True love’s kiss can break any curse.” Beverly Jenkins said, “Also, he’s got a jawline carved by God and respects you.” Hannah Grace said, “He’ll drive you to the rink at 6 a.m. and make you hot chocolate.” And I said, “Sign me up!”

I’m not delusional – I know real love doesn’t come with a montage or an orchestral swell or a gifted library – but romance novels keep that little spark alive. They remind me that love can still be gentle, funny, awkward, safe, and good…even if real life men tend to kind of suck.

Romance Is the Genre of Hope

I think what people don’t get is that romance isn’t just about the sex. It’s about believing. It’s about two people choosing each other – again and again – despite the chaos.

In a world that constantly feels like it’s ending, romance novels say, “Actually, there’s still time to love someone fully.” That’s not silly. That’s sacred.

Romance gives us permission to want more. To feel deeply. To believe in happy endings not as guarantees, but as possibilities.

So no, I won’t apologize for loving romance novels. I’ll be over here, glass of wine in hand, annotating a steamy love confession like it’s the Dead Sea Scrolls, crying over a hockey boy who actually communicates his feelings, and cheering on heroines who get to have love and agency.

If that’s wrong, then I don’t even want to be right.