Good News: Love Isn't Dead, It's Just Overcomplicated

If you’d asked me what falling love was supposed to feel like before the past six months, my answer would’ve been vastly different.

I probably would’ve said something yawningly predictable, like it feels “like you’re losing your mind,” or you feel “consumed and obsessive,” or something similar.

To me, before, falling in love was spending countless insecure hours in an emotional spiral, waiting for a text message to confirm that, in fact, the lover in question had not lost interest in me or the concept of “us” in the past 24 hours. It was “romantic gestures” like one or more of the following:

1. Choosing to go home with me on a night out

2. Texting me at all during daylight hours

3. Buying my drinks or food or coffee or literally anything at all

4. Saying that I look “pretty,” “nice,” or any positive-leaning adjective regardless of depth

5. Ignoring me in public because they “like me too much”

6. Kissing me without warning

7. Telling my friends or their friends that they thought I was hot

8. Wishing me a happy birthday

9. Randomly texting me an emoji without context

I know what you’re thinking—babe, those things aren’t even the bare minimum. And yep, I know. I know that now, but for the longest time, I didn’t.

As someone who grew up dreaming about Mr. Darcy, consuming art by the romantics, idolizing Audrey Hepburn's demeanor, and believing in flirtatious banter as a form of foreplay, I feel ashamed to admit that I fundamentally changed my expectations to fit in with what I was getting from the men (and the stories) around me. It didn’t feel good, but it also felt like a reality I couldn’t push against.

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment it happened, but there came a point in my life where being desired by men felt overwhelmingly like the single most important thing to my success as a woman. It was probably a gradual journey throughout high school; the place where you’re nobody if a boy doesn’t want to kiss you or touch your boobs.

But even as I got older and felt more powerful, more in control of my own desire — being desired by others still felt like the most satisfying way to find success. Desire was my guiding light. I was obsessed with it.

There is no denying the rush I’d get when it became clear that someone wanted to kiss me. Their aloofness wasn’t a sign of dislike — as I’d feared — but instead one of a desire to smash me against a wall full of records and shower me with Campari-fuelled kisses despite having a girlfriend (speaking from an actual experience).

I’d feel accomplished, like I had them in the palm of my hand. You mean to say that desire has the power to make someone behave outside accepted societal structures, like monogamy? That they’d throw away something they’d built just because they wanted to kiss me? I felt I held a power that made me invincible. All I had to do was be attractive forever. Eek.

But then, when the kissing was over and I was left with my body all on my own, I’d feel completely deflated, powerless. Afraid that they’d forget about all that desire they felt for me and they’d find someone else brighter than me and that then, I’d have nothing.

Stories about love teach us that as women, we need to capture the attention of others and hold it. That to be an attractive woman is to be untouchable and that it is our most important asset. To be called “beautiful”, to “make” people “crazy” is the way to get what we want. To be proposed to at the end of a walkway of rose petals with a man down on one knee, begging you to be with him forever, is winning. To utilize your physical assets in the workplace is the way to be in control and rise to the top. That having a boyfriend that lends you his t-shirts and picks you up from things means to be loved and cared for and we need that. But in order to achieve any of it, you have to be undeniably desirable.

In the mainstream stories of love I’d consumed, the men chose the beautiful women. The women were beautiful at all times, even when they first got out of bed in the morning. They very rarely did the choosing of the men, or of their romantic lives at all. To be chosen was a privilege.

And the men? They were supposed to make you feel a little mad. A little on the edge of your seat because will he call today? He has other options. The not-knowing was all the motivation you needed to be the most beautiful of all. It felt right, to be in this level of chaotic angst at all times. For your entire world to be completely changed the moment you heard from him. Anything else felt boring. Or not ‘right’. Were you falling in love if you weren’t feeling sick with anxiety? If it wasn’t challenging, it didn’t feel real.

The language led us here. The “falling” in love. We don’t “fall” into anything else willingly because falling usually hurts. It’s not a gentle word or action. It’s an often involuntary physical crash, sure to lead to some bruising — emotional or otherwise. Our instinct or bodily reflexes would usually stop us from falling — off a boat, a bridge, or even a chair — but we push through those instincts when it’s love because it’s supposed to feel uncomfortable. Right?

Being “lovesick” is said to be a sign that we’re in love, but since when is feeling sick fun and joy-filled? Sick with worry, anxiety, overwhelm about the tsunami of emotions someone else stirs up inside your body. A lack of control is what makes us feel sick, and so it should — because we should be the ones in control of our own lives. But according to mainstream love stories, falling in love isn’t something we control; it controls us.

I remember this man I thought I was totally in love with when I was 19. He was mean to me and nobody else, and I was convinced that meant he was in love with me too. His meanness somehow increased after we got naked and told each other how we felt, but I took his disinterested performance as proof of something more. It would drive me crazy, this feeling one thing and being presented with another. My body felt as though it was at war with my mind. I wanted to scream “I know you like me too!” but I’d always second-guess myself because his aloof-ness was so convincing.

Our romance — if you can even call it that — went on for about a year. He’d tell people he liked me, then claim to not remember saying it. He’d get drunk and call me late at night to say he was sorry for being a coward, and then pretend it never happened. He’d call me names in front of his friends but then follow me into the bathroom and kiss it better. I felt like I was in a cyclone, trying to decipher what was real and what was make-believe. But the crazy feelings felt a lot like the songs I listened to, and it felt nice to be able to relate. It felt like love.

He was one of many men — and a few women — who I let myself be loved by like this. The common thread was a lack of emotional availability, almost to the point of manipulation. They’d keep it from me most of the time, and drip-feed it to me when I was on the edge of giving up or going mad.

It felt challenging and complicated and as though I was constantly translating a foreign language. It’s such a weird reality to be physically connected with someone every day, having sex, cuddling, kissing holding, hands — but then to feel unsure if they’ll call you back.

So, if you’d asked me about love six months ago, I would’ve given you a long-winded and confusing ramble (thanks for sticking with me) of an answer because that’s how it made me feel. All torn up and unsure of myself. Pretty confident that I was the problem.

When I broke up with my ex in Italy almost two years ago, I remember thinking that love shouldn’t be this hard anymore. I’d lost myself to the challenge of staying beautiful to him, alluring, appealing, attractive — someone that he wanted to be in a relationship with. But I was exhausted by the constant criticism.

Days before we broke up, I had an epiphany. It was a moment of clarity amongst the chaos. I realized that the things he wanted to change about me, weren’t things I wanted to change about myself. I realized that without him instilling doubt into those parts of me, I’d actually probably flourish.

So, I left. I knew that love would feel different now, but I didn’t know how. And I didn’t care. I just knew that the love I’d been consuming and in turn, experiencing — wasn’t love at all.

I’m in love again now and this kind of love makes me question if I’ve ever been in love before. The main emotions are: calm, excited, content, motivated, inspired and horny. I knew, from the moment I sat down in front of him — a past colleague — that we’d be together. He wasn’t someone I’d ever imagined being with romantically, but all of a sudden it felt ridiculous to think of us existing in any other way.

Each time something happens in our relationship, I feel equal parts happy for the romantic inside of me, finally getting her love story and sad for the almost-decade worth of torture I put myself through. Because love feels easy.

I feel like screaming it from the rooftops! You don’t need to beat yourself up about them not texting you back, it’s simply not meant to be! Your beauty will not be in question! No one can replace you! If you don’t feel calm when you’re with them, but especially when you’re not, your anxiety is a warning — it’s not a sign of love!

The thing is, I feel like I probably heard these sentiments before but I didn’t really hear them. I didn’t hear them because 1 — I hadn’t experienced them but 2 — they’re not the main underlying story of love we’re told.

Because let’s be honest; we’re much more progressive than we used to be — we can love whoever we want, we can talk about our feelings openly on public platforms and there are many more stories out there that we can relate to — but we’re still living in a world where engagement rings fill our Instagram feeds and girls are losing their mind over boys not texting them back. ‘Ghosting’ is at an all time high, in fact. And that still makes us feel like we’re the problem.

You can’t demolish thousands of years of patriarchy in the classic romance structure with a few feminist opinions on social media and a few writers (like me) getting real about the f*cked-up-ness of it all. I know that simply telling you that the most exciting love story I’ve had to date is actually the least dramatic, might not hit until you’ve experienced it yourself. But to me, it’s worth it.

My current boyfriend was married to someone else less than a year ago. They have a daughter together. They were together for longer than I’ve ever been in a relationship with anyone. He’s ramping up his own creative business and he’s in a new relationship with me. But none of it feels complicated. So, how is it that I’ve been putting up with emotional manipulation, romantic torture, dishonesty and unnecessary criticism from people who just genuinely need to do some inner work, for years? And now, I’m in a peaceful, calm and loving relationship with someone who technically has so much more in their life to deal with? I think I’ve just been thinking about love all wrong. Until now.

I want to tell you that there is nothing more satisfying than having a simple love. A love that just is, and doesn’t need to be proven to anyone. I don’t feel needy because I know he’s there for me. I’m not filled with anxiety the moment he leaves my presence because I’m not fearful that he’s gone forever. I don’t feel blindsided because his words and his actions line up.

All the years I spent convinced that predictability was the death of romance, I was wrong. You don’t need someone to challenge you in a way that questions who you are. You don’t need the constant “thrill” — or terror, rather — of not knowing what the person you’re vulnerable with is going to say, feel or do to you.

Maybe there’s this overall desire to be in love because it’s such a big part of life. Life is nothing without connecting with others, and feeling seen and loved is one of the most beautiful things we can experience. But it will come, we don’t need to fight for it. And if we do, it isn’t right.

Thankfully, I think there are more stories than ever about self-love and the happiness that can spawn from living your life for yourself — especially as women — today. But the desire for love, romance and connection will always be there, and we shouldn’t feel ashamed about that.

Just know, from a woman who has experienced some truly cruel and torturous “loves” — that they’re not the real kind. The reason we write stories and songs about them is because we’re desperately trying to make sense of something we’re told is normal, but hurts too much to be true.

You know you’re in love when you don’t think to talk about it. When you don’t have to call your best friend or your mum sobbing into the wee hours of the night because you just can’t figure out what’s going on. You’ll know when your body feels calm and quiet.

Our bodies know. There are bad butterflies and good butterflies, and you’ll know the difference when you feel it.