Estimated reading time: 14 minutes
Hi, I’m a 22 year old student.
Last year I met a guy online by pure chance; I wrote something about student stuff and he answered in private, and after some not so regular chit-chat, we started talking daily, and then after several months we exchanged numbers, started calling each other, making video calls and he later admitted that he had feelings. At first, I thought I too liked him romantically, but after it became clear that he liked me, I became unsure.
I started to feel very anxious and searched people who experienced something similar online, and everything pointed to me just not having romantic feelings for him. I sort of agreed with that, and I started to believe that I just deeply cared about him.
We talked about it and agreed that if it makes me comfortable, we can just remain friends and he’s ok with that.
Later on, we met a couple of times, both times he was the one who came to my city, about 2 hours away from him. And both times I was just very happy, maybe a bit anxious, but happy nonetheless. Hugging didn’t feel exactly out of place, and I’m not exactly a touchy person, it’s usually something that I try to avoid.
It’s now been a few months since our “discussion” and for a while my feelings went almost back to how they used to be, except that now they feel more…”restrained”?
I’m definitely not sure if I like him, I’ve never had a relationship and sort of just don’t really know how I am supposed to feel, if there’s a specific way to feel love, that is.
I know that I like talking to him, we talk and call each other almost daily, and 99% of the time I just feel comfortable, he makes me feel comfortable, accepted, and all that good stuff, but…once again, I’m not sure if it’s romantic or not.
I don’t quite want to start a relationship when I’m unsure, I’m afraid of hurting him in the process and maybe lose him, someone who understands me and that I can understand, who’s there for me when I need it and that has a lot in common with me and made me discover a lot of things.
I know that this is just a fear that I have, that it may not necessarily be true, but at the same time we’re in this sort of grey zone in which flirting, sexual comments and very clear interest coming from him isn’t exactly out of the table, but anything more feels scary and anything less would make me…sad?
I feel like I’m also being selfish. I’m a rather lonely person and I tend to latch onto people who I feel like are on my same page, so the thought of not being able to have the friendship we currently have isn’t exactly welcome.
I feel like I just rambled a lot without actually saying anything meaningful, but if possible I’d like an outside view on all of this.
Thank you
How Do You Know?
HDYN, the question of “how do I know what love feels like” is the question that poets have been trying to answer since… well, honestly, since we invented language and abstract representation of intangible concepts. Trying to codify it into a specific feeling or collection of sensory data is missing the point. But put a pin in that, we’ll come back to it in a moment.
Instead, I think I’m going to turn things around and ask you a question: why is it important to know whether this is love or not? Or, rather, why this might be romantic love? After all, you’re friends, and fairly close friends at that; that’s also love. But clearly, that’s not the answer you’re hoping for. You’re looking for a hard “yes” or “no” to the question of “do I love this person?” and I think digging into the why of it is more relevant.
Love, after all, isn’t necessary for a relationship. People get into relationships – long term, committed, important and significant relationships – with people they aren’t in love with yet. The “yet” is the most significant part of that sentence; it’s an acknowledgement that while they may not be in love – or at least they think they’re not in love – they’re acknowledging that the potential for love to grow is there. It’s someone that they care for, someone whose presence in their life comforts and fulfills them, and makes them feel part of something greater than themselves. That other person occupies a significant and prominent part of their thoughts, their time, their consideration. There’s mutual respect and affection, shared values and experiences… the fertile loam from which love often grows. If love hasn’t bloomed yet – and there’s always the acknowledgement that it may not, because love can be vexing like that – there is at least the strong chance that it will.
And for a lot of people, sharing themselves with one another and giving love the chance to grow from the seeds they’re planting is a better use of their time than looking for love to be there before they start. Picking a relationship on its potential for love is a risk, sure… but it’s fulfilling something for them that wouldn’t be there if they were looking for love first and a relationshipafter. It’s a risk they find worth taking.
So, I wonder if perhaps what you’re hoping for is certainty, the mitigation of risk. You acknowledge the fear you feel, but have you considered what, precisely you’re afraid of? Sure you say you’re afraid of hurting him, and that’s understandable… but are you sure that isn’t a way of deflecting attention away from the real fear of getting hurt yourself? Is it easier, perhaps, to turn that attention outward, rather than to admit that you want this to be love, but you’re afraid that if it isn’t, you’ll be hurt in ways you’ve never experienced, ways that you worry you might not recover from?
Because I have to be honest: that could still happen. Even if this is romantic love, that’s no protection against pain or hurt. People in romantic relationships, where there is no question that this is love, get hurt in ways large and small. Love isn’t a prophylactic against regret or a way of ensuring a relationship’s success or longevity. Couples who love each other to distraction still find that their relationships come to an end, often in ways that seem like a tragedy. Sometimes, as the bards have said, love just ain’t enough.
Or maybe the issue at hand is that you are feeling things, and you aren’t sure you want to let them in. It’d be easier if you could give a name to these feelings; as wizards of old have known, to know something’s true name is to know everything about it, to control it, to be its master. Letting those feelings in when you aren’t sure what they are is a hell of a risk. You have no idea what you’re letting in and – again, as many wizards have learned to their dismay – summoning, warding, binding and dismissal are all separate disciplines, and you never want to summon something that you can’t dismiss.
So perhaps there’s that fear of letting yourself experience something unknown because you can’t be sure what it will do, something you aren’t sure that it can be controlled. But that’s the thing about love; it’s not something you control. You can really only let it run as it will. That’s part of the bargain we make with it. Love, at its core, means a willing release of control, and that too can be terrifying. Especially for someone who’s lonely, and wants something they only have heard of, someone that they know intellectually but have never actually experienced.
Or maybe it’s the fear of elevating this relationship, of giving it the sort of importance that love and romance would grant it, when it hasn’t necessarily proven to be one that deserves that level of prominence in your life and your heart. What if you round this up to love, let it in… and you’re wrong? What if this isn’t love, but a friendship that only can go so far, last so long? Would that mean that you’ve wasted all this time and risked the loss of what you already have? Wouldn’t it be safer if you knew in advance what this relationship actually was?
I think that’s part of why you’re asking what love feels like – you want to define it, to outline it, pin it to a board like a butterfly. It would be less frightening if you knew its exact dimensions, less intimidating if you could map out the precise feeling and physical sensations. It would take the mystery and the tension away if you could bring it to a binary – is it love, yes or no, 1 or 0.
However, that’s not how it works. Trying to define it by how it feels is how people mistake limerence for love, or measure it by jealousy it inspires or confuse sexual attraction for romantic compatibility. Oxytocin and dopamine surges feel like love and inspire connection and closeness, but they’re purely chemical reactions. Love is often defined by the experience, not by the feeling.
I think you’re asking the wrong question, HDYN, because I think you’re giving certainty too much importance. I think you’ve put too much significance on knowing what to call what you have, instead of appreciating what you have. Giving it a name may give it definition, sure… but sometimes you have to let it reveal its name to you, like a feral cat that wants to adopt you.
I think the best thing you can do is let go of the need for certainty. I understand your worry that you could lose this – whatever this may be – but certainty about what “this” is called isn’t proof against anything. There’re no guarantees in life except that none of us get out of it alive. There are no rewards without risk, and love is a full-contact sport; there’s always the chance of getting hurt, no matter how carefully you go.
So, I think the question you should answer is: do you want this relationship to be more than friendship? Do you want this to have the potential to be love? Are you willing to take the risk that maybe this is or isn’t love, knowing that love isn’t going to make things any safer, any more sure or any less painful if things end?
I think, if you’re hoping that the answer is “yes, this is love”, then the better option for you is to stop asking what it may be. To stop hoping that you can name it before you start and instead be willing to live with a little mystery. There’s nothing wrong with saying “I’m not sure what to call this, but let’s give it a try anyway.”
Yeah, that can be scary. But again: life is scary. Sometimes you just have to be scared and do it anyway, with the understanding that this is the path to wisdom. I think you might be happier and less anxious if you were to say “I don’t know what this is, precisely, but I like it. I don’t know what to call it, but I’d like to take time and see what it becomes.”
If you are hoping that the answer is yes… then be willing to take that risk and see. Love is, in a lot of ways, a leap of faith. Sometimes you fall, sure… but sometimes you fly.
Good luck.
Dear Dr. NerdLove:
I am aroace and terrified that no one will ever love me or invest in me emotionally. I would like a “normal” monogamous relationship in which I build a life with someone, but I know the odds of that happening are extremely slim.
I know that my small-town life is a big contributing factor, but my job is literally the only thing in my life that brings me joy. Multiple therapists have turned me down when I bring this issue to them.
Please help me feel like I have a future where I am loved and cherished bc I just do not see it.
No Future
Under normal circumstances, I don’t question people’s self-identification but… are you sure you’re aromantic? I’m asking in part because, well, it sure seems like you’re hoping to fall in love and haven’t yet, rather than not being capable of it.
Don’t get me wrong, aro people aren’t Vulcans; they experience a wide gamut of emotions and connections, just not romantic love. But it’s not very often that you find someone who’s aro – solidly aro – who is hoping for what would ultimately be a one-sided love with someone whose affection would, by definition, be unrequited.
I’m also not precisely sure what a “normal” monogamous relationship in this case would bring you that is so important that you’re terrified that you’ll never have one. Is it solidity? Comfort? Is it the belief that a “normal”, monogamous relationship will mean that your future partner will never leave you or develop feelings or an attraction for another person who might return those feelings and desires in ways that you – again, by definition, can’t? Because I hate to be the one to tell you this but monogamy isn’t a magic spell. People in closed relationships and who make monogamous commitments develop feelings for other people, develop attraction to other people all the time. Monogamy just means you agree not to have sex with other people, not that you won’t want to.
And to be perfectly blunt: a “normal” monogamous relationship with someone who isn’t also aroace in very specific ways is going to be a tall order. The vast majority of people out there are allosexual, and a sexual connection with their partner tends to be near the top of the list of priorities of what they want in a relationship. The desire for sex is one of the most primal drives in humans, and sex almost always wins in the end, no matter what we say and no matter the consequences.
If you’re hoping to find someone who’s willing to give up sex with anyone except themselves… well, I’m not going to say that those people don’t exist, I know folks who are in precisely that relationship, but you will be looking for a very specific needle in a haystack made of other needles. If you’re willing to make that search, then good luck and God speed… just be willing to acknowledge that this is the tallest of tall orders and you may be single for a lot longer than you might prefer.
Now, maybe the issue at hand is “normal”. “Normal” is kind of a meaningless word when it comes to people and relationships; it implies that there’s a natural order to things when in reality, “normal” really just means “in the mainstream”. What we consider to be a “normal” relationship today would be considered insane 500 years ago, when sages and philosophers all agreed that romantic love was an absurd thing to base a relationship on; it was far too volatile and capricious to serve as a foundation for building a home and raising a family. All “normal” does is put the stamp of societal approval on something without ever considering whether it’s actually a good fit for everyone involved, meets anyone’s needs or even works as intended.
So, maybe what you want is to let go of “normal” and the narrative of a spouse or the idea that romantic love is the end goal. After all, people can love and cherish you without being romantically in love with you. People build lives and families – loving, happy, successful households and families – without being in romantic love. Family don’t end in blood, after all; family is what you make it. The family you’re assigned at the start of the game is just that: the family you’re assigned. You can find and build a new one if the one you’re assigned isn’t a good fit.
Perhaps what you should be looking for isn’t “normal” monogamy; you should look for people you love – as in philia and storge, not eros – and who you mesh with. Your partner who loves and cherishes you and supports you can be your best friend, your sibling in all but blood. Your connection may not be “normal”, but what good is “normal” when you aren’t “normal”? Why waste the time trying to sand off your corners and edges to fit into a round hole when you’re a perfectly good square peg already?
Sometimes the issue isn’t that you can’t find what you’re looking for. Sometimes it’s that you’re trying to force yourself into something that’s a bad fit, like trying to wedge your feet into shoes that are the wrong size and shape. You may be able to accomplish it, but not without pain and blisters, hindering your ability to walk and running the risk of an infection that will ultimately cost you far more than you realize.
I think if you take a little time to consider why “normal” is supposed to be so important to you and ask if maybe there are other ways that these needs could be met – even if they’re not “typical” – you might be a lot happier, and a lot less afraid.
All will be well.
