by Petros Staurianos
The word love used to slip out of my mouth with ease, as if it carried no weight at all. I said it thoughtlessly, as though it were obvious what I meant. Only later did I realize the absurdity of this, how could I have used such a heavy word so casually, without ever pausing to ask what I was really saying? That gap between language and meaning revealed something deeper, a vital problem in how I understood love itself.
For a long time, I treated love as something obvious, almost self-explanatory. I imagined it as a feeling that rose naturally from within, my attachment to another person, the bond that tied me to them, the closeness and care I gave or received. In short, love seemed like something I simply knew when I felt it, total and unquestionable, beyond the need for explanation.
By the same logic, I assumed the love of others was equally certain. My family, my partners, my friends, I rarely doubted they loved me, if only because they were present in my life and because our shared time seemed proof enough.
And yet, even with that understanding, I couldn’t truly take it in. I knew I was surrounded by people who cared for me in the abstract ways love reveals itself, but I couldn’t internalize the idea. Love seemed present every day, woven into my environment, yet I felt far removed from it. I can still picture myself at eight years old, lying in bed, gripped by the fear that my parents would throw me out of the house. It was a baseless fear, detached from reality, but the feeling of being unloved was real enough. Sixteen years later, I still struggle to shake the belief that what I was taught to call “love” was, in truth, something else entirely.
So, the question arises naturally: what is love? And if it is supposedly so ordinary, so universal, why does its absence leave such a profound mark?
First, love is notoriously difficult to define. Its meanings and expressions are vast, ranging from the quiet bond between friends to the passionate devotion of romance, from the care a parent shows a child to the strange attachment we form to objects, memories, or even fantasies. Precisely because of this diversity, love cannot be captured by a clean, rational definition, any attempt to do so may end up reducing it to a formula and missing its very essence.
Love isn’t just a feeling or a natural instinct; it’s a disruption, something that shakes up our usual life and changes what we think is important. It can be tender, but also terrifying, because it forces us to commit and expose ourselves to vulnerability. Desire gives it its intensity, yet without recognition and responsibility, love risks collapsing into obsession or mere consumption.
In this sense, love is not simply an emotion to be celebrated, but a decision that transforms how we see ourselves and others. To love truly is to accept the irrational excess at its core, while still grounding it in respect, care, and fidelity.
Besides, love is both deeply personal and profoundly dynamic. It changes with time, often in ways we do not anticipate. At first, it may feel like a consuming force, driven by passion and the need to be desired. It can, also, become a steadier bond grounded in trust, patience, and a willingness to care even when it is difficult.
Misunderstanding love, as either endless euphoria or complete self-sacrifice, easily leads to disappointment. Yet even when we think we understand love, our own expectations and limitations can still bring frustration. We may want more than anyone can give or hope for forms of love that are impossible to sustain. Real intimacy requires balance, the strength to give without losing oneself, the openness to receive without entitlement, and the resilience to stay when conflict arises.
Love’s paradox lies here: it is both irrational and demanding, both fragile and enduring. To love truly is not to discover perfection in another person, but to remain present through imperfection. To accept that struggle and fragility are not signs of failure but part of what makes love real. In this sense, love is not an escape from life’s difficulties but a way of confronting them together.
The absence of love is just as real and measurable as its presence. One recent study found that children who experience poor-quality parental bonding early in life are more likely to struggle with mood and anxiety disorders as adults. Put simply, love, or the lack of it, has tangible, lasting effects on our minds, our emotional development, and the way we navigate the world. Its absence leaves gaps that cannot simply be filled later; it shapes not only our relationships with others but also our relationship with ourselves.
Think of me as an eight-year-old again, lying in bed, terrified of abandonment. This fear is not caused solely by the absence of parents, but by the impossibility of translating abstract presence into internalized certainty. It is the silent space between gestures of care, the moments when reassurance is offered but not fully received, that carve themselves into our sense of security.
Absence is not merely a lack; it is an active force in shaping perception, cognition, and emotional resilience. It teaches lessons in anxiety and doubt, in longing and mistrust, that often linger long after the original experience. Love’s absence is both intensely personal and socially conditioned. It reflects individual circumstances, but also broader patterns of neglect, overwork, or distraction in family life.
And yet, so often we assume love is everywhere, that it is natural, automatic, and inescapable. That assumption blinds us to the quiet, pervasive ways in which too many children grow up without the emotional scaffolding they truly need, and to the ways those early voids echo throughout a lifetime.
And perhaps this is the ultimate paradox of love: it cannot be possessed, secured, or fully understood, yet it shapes the very contours of our existence. Its absence is as formative as its presence, teaching us what it means to fear, to long, to hope, and, crucially, to act despite uncertainty. Love exposes the illusion that we are ever fully in control of our emotions, that closeness can be guaranteed, that care can be counted on. It forces us to confront the uncomfortable truth that the people we cherish will never fully fulfill our expectations, and yet we continue to give, to risk, to persist.
In this sense, love is not only the most human of experiences, but also the most radical. It demands that we inhabit the tension between desire and limitation, between vulnerability and responsibility. To love is to accept that life itself is a negotiation with absence, with imperfection, and with the unknowable other; and in that acceptance, paradoxically, we find the only form of presence that endures.
