Romantic Chaos Isn’t Chemistry, It’s Trauma
Tell me why we keep acting like fireworks and anxiety are the same thing? Like if some guy makes our stomach flip with nerves and we can’t breathe every time he texts “hey,” it MUST be love. “OMG, I’m obsessed, it’s so intense,” we say, as our entire nervous system files for divorce.
But sis, let’s have a moment of radical honesty. Most of what we call “chemistry” is actually our trauma yelling, “Heeeey bestie, remember childhood?”
Seriously, though. The butterflies you feel? Sometimes, that’s butterflies. Sometimes, that’s your body going, “Oh hi, this person reminds me of every unstable situation I survived in my formative years!” Isn’t it wild? The things we’d rather call “sparks” than “red flags.”
I mean, look at the receipts. Why do we chase the guy who cancels at the last minute and texts back after four hours—like clockwork? Meanwhile, the stable dude who double texts “Good morning 😊,” and “Hey, want to have dinner?” makes us roll our eyes so far back I’m scared they’ll get stuck there. It’s not that nice guys are boring. It’s that our nervous systems have been trained to find predictable, healthy behavior… well, boring. We chase the chaos because it feels like home, not because it’s romantic.
Did he show up drunk to your birthday, pick a fight, disappear for a week, then send flowers? Oh, the drama. The plot twists. Who needs Netflix? “We just have incredible chemistry! It’s like, I’m just drawn to him.” Girl. Drawn to him? Sure. But also drawn into a pattern built on anxiety, inconsistency, and the subconscious hope that THIS TIME you’ll finally be enough to “fix” someone.
Let me rip the Band-Aid off: That’s not romance. That’s reenacting old wounds. Chemistry that leaves you shaky, depleted, analyzing emojis for subtext, and calling your best friend crying at 1am is not chemistry. That’s trauma bonding in stilettos.
Ugh, our society gives us the worst relationship homework. “You just want too much.” “He’s just mysterious.” “If it’s meant to be, it’ll be hard.” No babe, if he answers your texts on time and makes you feel safe and you’re SNOOZING, go to therapy, not to a psychic. Respectfully.
I used to call myself a “hopeless romantic”—god, I wore that like a freaking badge of honor. Cue: glitter, heartbreak Spotify playlists, panic attacks. But what I really was? A spinning tornado of uncooked feelings, bouncing between emotionally unavailable men because stability felt unfamiliar. God forbid someone liked me back on a calm Tuesday! I’d sprint off for the nearest emotionally stunted “bad boy” faster than you can say ‘self-sabotage.’
What we call passion is usually just a brain wired for chaos. Want proof? Rate how you feel the day after a massive blowout with Mr. Hot-and-Cold. Exhilarated, but like you haven’t slept, ate, or breathed in 48 hours? That’s adrenaline. That’s cortisol. It is NOT a sign from the universe he’s your soulmate. It’s your nervous system trying not to combust.
Look—I’m not saying dump every attractive idiot at the first sign of confusion. Okay, maybe I am, a little. But mostly, I’m begging you to stop calling anxiety “chemistry.” Lovers aren’t supposed to feel like a final boss fight. Real chemistry is safe, easy. It gives you space to chill, to think, to laugh. It doesn’t leave you checking your phone for dopamine hits like you’re waiting for Taylor Swift ticket drops.
So next time you mistake emotional whiplash for romantic destiny, remember: chaos isn’t chemistry, it’s your trauma playing DJ. Maybe go put on some self-worth, make yourself a matcha, and choose the text that feels like peace, not a panic attack.
Love yourself so hard, even your drama can’t find the spare key.
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