Love Doesn’t Look Like Anxiety
Here’s a toxic little plot twist: We’ve all been so trained—by rom-coms, pastel Instagram quotes, and that friend who secretly loves the drama—to think anxiety is “passion.” Like, if your heart isn’t doing the Macarena every time he leaves you on read, is it even true love? Spoiler: Yes. And your gut (that sweet inner goddess you ignore) is five drinks deep, screaming, “No, bitch, that’s not love. That’s cortisol.”
You know what’s sexy? Peace. You ever had that? Or do you only know a love story that looks like you, chain-scrolling, overthinking, dissecting every typo in his latest text? Because honestly, if your love life requires this much decoding, shouldn’t you get a PhD out of it?
Hear me. If every time he takes two hours to reply you’re sweating like you’re on a criminal trial, that’s not butterflies. That’s your body saying, “I’m in danger, girl.” Love should not spike your blood pressure. Or send you to the group chat with, “Is he mad at me? Or just busy? Should I double-text?”
Sis. Why do we glorify this? Since when did blacking out from nerves mean you found The One? If your body is yelling RED FLAG and your mind is running through potential responses like you’re prepping for some high-stakes negotiation, maybe this thing isn’t it. Just saying.
Actual love? It’s boring sometimes. That’s the tea. It’s you chilling, half-naked, double-chinned, in last week’s pajamas, not feeling the need to perform Olympic-level gymnastics to keep someone interested. You’re not checking your phone every five seconds. You’re present. (Imagine!)
Look, chemistry is fun. We all love a man who makes our stomach feel like a tumble dryer. But if your “spark” is really persistent nausea—it’s time to re-evaluate. If your highs are sky-high and your lows make you question your sanity, that’s not hot. That’s nervous system abuse.
Let’s be real: Anxiety feels familiar because we’ve grown up with it. Maybe your parents’ relationship Instagrammed the highlight reel but behind the scenes was peak anxiety. Maybe you got sold the “hard work” lie. As if love is supposed to be an unpaid internship for your nerves.
It’s not. Love is soft. Real love feels like sleeping in on a Sunday morning, not running a 10k with your heart. It’s you, not overthinking if you sounded “desperate” or “too much” or “clingy” or [insert literally any anxiety-fueled self-judgment here]. It’s simply feeling secure. Snooze-worthy, maybe, but I’ll take boring and peaceful over heart palpitations, thanks!
Newsflash: If he makes you feel like you need to shrink, you’re not in love. You’re in survival mode. You’re not “bad at relationships.” You’re just craving safety.
You want chill? Date the man who texts back like a functioning adult. Who tells you where he stands. Who doesn’t weaponize silence like a passive-aggressive ninja. The one who makes you feel lovable—not triggering your inner monologue of “Did I mess up? Am I enough?”
And if you haven’t met him yet, that’s fine too. But don’t you dare settle for anxiety dressed up as love. Don’t. That’s emotional fast food—looks good on the menu, leaves you feeling ill.
Next time your stomach drops at an unsent text or your heart races at his every move, just stop. Ask yourself: Is this love, or am I just addicted to the stress rollercoaster? Drama isn’t love. It’s just…drama. Let’s stop pretending it’s romantic.
Trust me. Love looks like safety. Love sounds like laughter. Love feels like an exhale, not a panic attack. And you, my love, deserve to breathe.
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