This article is part of the series:
Advice from a Sister from Another MotherA collection of honest reflections and practical lessons from a 30-something to her 20-something sisters—about love, self-worth, career, money, and navigating this wild thing called life. Written from the other side of the storm—because I might know a thing or two.
When the drama feels addictive, the silence feels wrong,
and the chaos is mistaken for depth.
For a long time, I thought love had to feel like fire.
Like a rush. A pull. A high I couldn’t explain.
If it wasn’t intense, if it didn’t leave me breathless or aching or spinning—I didn’t trust it.
I’d confuse calm for boredom. Safety for stagnation. Presence for passivity.
Maybe because the love I learned growing up came with emotional highs and lows—rare tenderness wrapped in unpredictable anger. So when someone showed up steady and kind, I didn’t know what to do with it. I mistook it for indifference, even emptiness. I kept chasing intensity, thinking it meant passion, not realizing it was just my nervous system replicating what felt familiar.
There was someone who made me feel everything, all at once. Like I was cracked open. Like I was finally alive. I was constantly thinking about him—about what he meant, about what I meant to him. We weren’t even having label, but somehow my entire emotional state was wrapped around our interactions. Every little gesture felt loaded. Every silence felt like punishment. It was undefined, but addictive. It felt intense, electric, like there had to be something deeper underneath all the confusion. And for a while, I convinced myself that must be love.
But what I didn’t understand back then was this: just because something feels intense, doesn’t mean it’s healthy. And just because you feel everything, doesn’t mean it’s love.
Sometimes, it’s just nervous system dysregulation. A trigger loop disguised as passion. A trauma bond wrapped in poetry.
We romanticize the chaos because it’s familiar. It mirrors a childhood where love was inconsistent, unpredictable, and had to be earned. So when we meet someone who activates that same pattern, our body says, Ah, this must be it.
But what if calm isn’t boring? What if it’s what your nervous system has been craving all along?
What chaos often sounds like:
- "I never know where I stand with them, but that’s part of the thrill."
- "We always fight, but the make-up part is worth it."
- "I know they hurt me, but no one understands me like they do."
- "They make me feel alive—no one else has that effect."
That’s not aliveness. That’s survival. That’s your nervous system stuck in the familiar rhythm of craving and crash. When love is always a puzzle, always a chase, always a test—it doesn’t strengthen your heart, it wears it out. You start to equate tension with connection. You crave the drama not because it’s good for you, but because it keeps you from facing the quiet ache of being alone.
What calm might sound like (but often gets overlooked):
- "They actually listen—and remember what I say."
- "There’s no drama, just clarity."
- "I can breathe around them."
- "It’s peaceful, and I feel seen—even in silence."
That doesn’t mean the relationship is perfect or always easy. It means the foundation isn’t made of fear. It means you’re not on high alert. It means your nervous system can finally rest. And when that rest feels unfamiliar—maybe even boring—it’s worth asking:
Do I associate love with unpredictability because I never learned what stable love looks like?
Or more gently: What if the boring thing… is actually the safe thing I never knew I needed?
From the Other Side
The truth is, I still catch myself mistaking emotional turbulence for depth. I still have to remind myself that intensity isn't proof of connection. It's just… intensity.
Now I know this: Love that lasts often begins quietly. It grows from safety, not chaos. It deepens with presence, not confusion. It holds you—not hostage—but gently, with care.
So if you're in something that constantly hurts but feels too powerful to leave, maybe the question isn't, “Why can’t I let go?”
Maybe it's: “What part of me was taught that love has to hurt first?”
I remember how it felt in my body to be with him—anxious, always on edge, always looking forward to the next text like it was oxygen. It was undefined, unspoken, uncertain. But the intensity was electrifying. I thought that was love. I confused butterflies with belonging. I mistook anxiety for chemistry.
Now, it’s different. It’s warm. It’s close. It’s not perfect, but it’s real.
There’s no guessing game, no waiting three hours to decode a message, no highs followed by silence. I don’t have to reread conversations to find hidden meaning, or walk on eggshells hoping today won’t be the day it all falls apart.
Now, I sleep with ease, not anxiety. I speak, and I’m heard. I feel safe showing both my strength and my softness—because I know I’m not just tolerated, I’m treasured.
I know where home is. I know I’m not just wanted—I’m chosen, daily. In tiny gestures. In ordinary mornings. In the way he shows up, again and again, with no need to impress—just to be there.
I’m safe. I’m someone’s priority, without needing to beg for it. And for the first time, calm feels like love—not because it lacks spark, but because it holds space.
Space for me to rest, to grow, to be.
What if the kind of love you deserve doesn’t need to take your breath away—but helps you breathe more freely?
And if any of this hits a little too close to home, you’re not alone. I’ve been there too—mistaking chaos for chemistry, feeling addicted to the emotional highs, and calling it love.
If you want to know what it really looked like from the inside, I wrote about it.
A little raw. A little funny. A lot delulu.
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