Throughout the many cold, depressing months of winter in New York, I often find myself curled up in bed with Nutella and Netflix, my mind lingering on every past almost-relationship. I start questioning what I did wrong, how things might have panned out differently. Maybe I should’ve paid more attention, or waited longer to get to know the guy. Like a lot of women, I’m all too ready to blame myself for relationships gone wrong, and today’s self-help industry only reinforces this notion of women’s culpability.
