Let’s start with something simple: even in the most evolved and open-minded partnerships, people still get hurt.
Yes, we can agree on new rules and norms. We can decide that “left” is just as natural as “right.” We can establish an “equal footing” dynamic between husband and wife, partners, lovers. But these agreements alone don’t take the pain out of being human together.
Because underneath any agreement, there’s still the human heart—raw, open, afraid.
Here’s what I think people miss.
Some individuals are so whole and self-contained that they can live in joy without ever needing intimacy. Others are so wounded that they’ve sealed themselves off from connection entirely. Both seem untouched by the highs and lows of relationships—but for very different reasons. And neither tells the full story.
True intimacy is fragile. Building it is hard. Keeping it alive is harder. It’s never automatic. And when it’s real—when it’s open and mutual—it is a gift. Being open is no small thing. I have deep reverence for those who can do it. Because to be open inside a relationship is like tending to a living garden. It needs care. Patience. Seasons of growth and pruning.
We forget that relationships are living organisms. They breathe. They shift. And yes—Love can be born, and Love can die. We have the capacity to bring it to life—and we also have the power to kill it.
Now, don’t get me wrong—I have nothing against connection. I believe in two people meeting, merging, creating something beautiful together. A bouquet of selves. But only if it’s love, not just lust.
Desire is not the problem. But lust, when surrendered to impulsively, carelessly, destructively? That’s a different story. I know there are people who say it should never be suppressed. But I believe it not only can be, it must be—understood, channeled, elevated. Just because something exists inside you doesn’t mean it should lead you.
After all, haven’t most of us had the urge to hurt someone out of rage—and not acted on it? That’s what makes us human: choice. Consciousness.
So I choose what feels true for me.
When I love, I love with a full heart. That kind of love fills me so completely, there’s no room for others in that sacred space. And for me, the joy of the body without the joy of the heart leaves me empty. If my partner feels otherwise—if he can separate body from heart—then something inside me aches. Either he doesn’t love me like I love him… or maybe he doesn’t feel much at all.
That imbalance? That’s where pain starts. That’s where fear creeps in.
Fear of loss. Fear of being replaced. Fear of your world unraveling. We don’t just fear losing a person. We fear losing the entire system we built around them—identity, safety, home, self-worth. We fear losing ourselves.
Of course, in today’s world, a partner can be “taken away” as easily as someone sliding into a DM. The temptation is endless. There will always be someone smarter, sexier, more aligned with one piece of who our partner is.
That hurts—especially for those of us still unsure of our worth.
And yet, I admire those who can see beauty in every person. The way Johnny Depp played Don Juan—he didn’t just see beauty, he reflected it back to the women he met. Or like Diego Rivera in Frida. His ex-wife says: “He belongs to no one. He only belongs to himself. And he knows how to see beauty.” There’s something sacred in that. Few people can really do it.
If my partner were that kind of man—who could see others clearly and bring them joy—I would be proud. As long as it was about bringing joy, not seeking exits. Not slipping out of intimacy. Not running from the depth we created together.
Still, I believe we are meant to be close. To be in connection. We may flirt with spiritual ascension, but we’re still human. We want to be held. We want to be chosen.
As a friend of mine once joked: “It’s a pity polygamy isn’t legal. Some men shouldn’t be limited to just one woman!” There’s humor in it. But also truth. Maybe the real tragedy is not in how many we love—but in how little we understand love at all.
