The expiry of one’s day often summons long, occasionally dreaded intervals of ruminative introspection. Yet, there come certain nights on which we relinquish the impulse to revisit our immediate past, opting instead to envision a future eve wherein we occupy the selfsame bed with a being our hearts and minds deify as the flawless epitome of all that is good. Such a reverie should not be greeted with consternation; rather, it merely signals the stirring condition we designate as ‘In Love”.
Where else, but in our storied chronicles of love, might a curious alien witness humanity in its most captivating, ardent, tender, and unguarded guise, rather than succumbing to the usual perceptions of bloodlust, vanity, and voracity? Indeed, this elusive condition is one of the few that galvanizes our collective esteem for one another, transcending the superficial confines of race, creed, or complexion. Within its bounds, women are esteemed for more than mere physical allure, no longer relegated to objects of fleeting desire, while men emerge slightly more beguiling, rescued from the harrowing fate of eternal disappointment. Yet, in the very same embrace of love, one’s outlook on existence may be eclipsed by sorrowful gloom, or, if calamity attends the dissolution of passion, it can prove ruinous. Thus, to love another is a truly curious and perilous undertaking.
Contrary to the pedestrian convictions commonly espoused, love manifests as an astoundingly spontaneous and serendipitous marvel, heedless of any codified precepts or constraints. It is an emotion seldom governed by deliberate volition; rather, it selects its subjects in a manner that defies our most calculated intentions. Many amongst those who have experienced romance would confess that, in some otherwise mundane moment, whether steeped in the residual contemplations before slumber’s onset, or captivated by an arresting cinematic scene, their mind was abruptly seized by a riotously haphazard vision. In an instant, a deluge of thoughts, numbering in the hundreds if not thousands, stormed their consciousness with merciless and ferocious fervor.
The moment itself is nearly unendurable in intensity, yet one can sense the precipitous descent unfolding. A plunge fraught with nebulous apparitions of a face that otherwise would have been deemed unworthy of such meticulous rumination. In that singular instant, unbeknownst to the object of our affection, they assume unwitting responsibility for our radical temperaments, our bewildering impulses, and even our sudden proclivity for browsing particular bookstores. Many would insist that such an all-consuming sentiment would necessitate a vaster timeframe to mature. Yet, as even the rigors of scientific inquiry fail to isolate an incontrovertible, universal definition of love, one can plausibly argue, and defend with sincere conviction, that it begins the very moment our hearts falter at the sight of that ineffably special soul.
A love story, or tragedy, often commences the moment you, with unwavering certitude, elevate a stranger to the status of a cherished “crush.” Thenceforth, a relentless obsession takes root. You begin to marvel at the lustrous coil of their curls, lose yourself in the hypnotic depths of their eyes, commit their favored turns of phrase to memory, and become enthralled by the endearing tremor of their hands whenever laughter overtakes them.
Inevitably, upon learning of your epiphany, your erstwhile ordinary friends shed their ordinary personas and assume the mantle of expert relationship tacticians. They surge forth, eager to shower you with artful strategies and polished counsel, fully intent on securing for you a triumphant date with that coveted person.
I hold my friends in the highest esteem, but truth be told, their pearls of wisdom are about as likely to secure me a romantic dinner as a pocket watch is to hail a taxi. More often than not, I’d find myself burning the midnight oil to convince some puzzled officer, or, in the worst of scenarios, an entire wing of psychiatrists, that I’m perfectly sane and decidedly undeserving of a padded cell.
Fortunately, after a grueling odyssey marked by doubts, reservations, theatrical confrontations, and a multitude of sleepless nights, you finally earn the right to clasp your beloved’s hands and resolutely—even emphatically—declare the magical words: “I am falling in love with you.” Alas, this once-sacred phrase has been diminished into a far less stirring “I like you.” The rationale behind this curious shift is both cumbersome and mundane.
This line of reasoning commits a fallacy, for how can anyone definitively distinguish one degree of affection from another? The usual justifications involve incremental increases in comfort, a growing willingness to share, and other apparent “upgrades” that do suggest a progressing emotional state—hence the term “falling.” Still, quantifying the precise intensity of love remains an exceedingly difficult undertaking.
Yet, an ill-considered “I love you” might prove even less desirable; therefore, we should refrain from inflating, diminishing, or otherwise attempting to gauge our feelings in precise terms. Rather, we ought to meet the beloved’s gaze with an affectionate intensity and, in a low but fervent tone, declare that we are “falling for them”, that they occupy a realm somewhat beyond a casual weekend companion, yet remain just shy of a lifelong consort.
Nonetheless, beyond the matter of linguistic subtleties, there loom additional perils. By long-standing tradition, our pride stands as love’s most formidable adversary. To nurture a romantic attachment of genuine solidity, we must subdue our self-importance and surrender to our beloved unencumbered by the endless clamors of our own minds. It is a logical practice, for it seems only natural that our amorous pursuits remain untainted by the disruptions so often wrought by smugness and arrogance. Undeniably, such a feat is no trifling endeavor; indeed, it’s here where most of us are usually defeated by our own defenses.
I may have misspoken in my earlier contention. Pride itself is not factually the true adversary; the real challenge lies in our reluctance to overcome it. Who amongst us is comfortable surrendering control of the life they’ve spent years molding? Who is willing to sacrifice a restful night’s sleep, jeopardize their mood, or fret that their feelings might be misplaced should their partner fail to include a simple “love” in a “good night, love” text? Hence, once we recognize that love has entered our lives, rather than squandering energy on measuring its intensity, we should turn inward, assess our own resilience, and ask whether we are truly prepared to love and to be loved in return.
Once the question of readiness enters the stage, the conversation ceases to be about mere semantics—whether we “like” or “love”—and instead delves into the deeper chambers of personal fortitude. Love, in its unvarnished form, commands a willingness to surrender illusions of control, to risk precarious vulnerabilities, and to tear down the barricades behind which we comfortably hide. To truly embrace love, we must stand before our own reflection and count the ways in which we might falter. Are we prepared to see our carefully curated routines dismantled by another’s presence? Are we able to sit with the creeping discomfort that arises when someone claims a portion of our autonomy?
If the answer is an honest “not yet,” there is no shame in granting yourself time. Emotional resilience is a muscle cultivated by repeated strain and gentle recovery. Sometimes, recognizing our unreadiness spares us the anguish of a love embarked upon too hastily, one that might end as swiftly as it began, leaving in its wake a more fortified cynicism than before.
For many, the mere prospect of relinquishing even a fragment of that self-governance is daunting. The fortress of pride is not simply erected out of vanity but born of genuine concern for our emotional safety. It’s a defense born out of experience. The experience that life is never easy enough for us to wander defenseless. Yet, no fortress was ever built that could keep out both the threats of heartbreak and the warmth of genuine intimacy. The thicker we make our walls, the less likely we are to feel love’s invigorating surge. And so, the first step is not to measure how deeply one cares, but to evaluate whether one’s defenses are truly necessary.
Fearfully, our introspective venture may likewise conjure a monstrosity of equal horror. Are we deserving of love at all? This single query has the curious power to humble the seemingly invincible. Somewhere in the endless scroll of our self-assessments lies a trembling conviction that we might be unworthy. Perhaps one is insufficient in beauty, lacking in “personality” so many exalt, or simply too flawed to merit another’s devotion. And so, we ruminate over whether we can ever be deemed “a loved one” by someone who neither carried us into this world nor was compelled by circumstance, such as a seatmate in school, to linger in our orbit.
For many, this question is far more daunting than the notion of loving another. To seek a place in someone’s heart is to risk the possibility that our name might be crossed out as soon as it is penciled in. We fear that the moment we stand naked before their gaze, stripped of pretense and any cosmetic illusions, our scars and inadequacies will loom larger than our redeeming qualities. It is a fear that impels even the bravest among us to wonder whether rejection might be more bearable than acceptance, because at least rejection affirms the narrative we’ve spun of our own unworthiness, whereas acceptance forces us to confront the idea that, perhaps, we are lovable after all.
But if love is a gift given freely, can anyone ever truly deserve it? Perhaps the answer resides in the recognition that love itself is not governed by merit. It does not demand our perfection, nor does it arrive with an invoice of achievements. Instead, it emerges from the intangible harmony between two human beings. In its highest form, love is offered unconditionally.
Importantly, I must elucidate that unconditional love must never be misconstrued as a carte blanche to behave intolerably or inflict conscious harm upon our partners. While it is true that love should not hinge upon markers of worth, be they wealth, prestige, or intellectual pursuits, the absence of explicit conditions does not absolve us from the moral obligation of growth and self-refinement. The very admission of our inherent flaws should, in fact, propel us toward continuous betterment. Though love may be unwavering, we must not employ that constancy as an excuse to cease our efforts toward becoming kinder, wiser, and more considerate souls.
So, to stand on the threshold of being called “a loved one” by someone who owes us nothing is, in many ways, one of life’s most sublime experiences. It is an affirmation not of our virtues but of our shared humanity, our capacity for tenderness, and our willingness to bare our vulnerabilities. Thus, the final step in our pilgrimage toward love is not merely to assess our readiness but to rest in the hope that someone’s decision to love us is not a transaction or a reward for flawless conduct. It is a quiet testament to the deeper truth that, sometimes, love chooses us precisely because we are gloriously human, and our imperfections only make the bond more complete.
Dr.MOG 
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