Love Is Not The Same
I was journaling during the last days of January, doing a recap of my month before entering the last month of the winter season. As I wrote, I found myself reflecting on an experience I had recently — seeing someone I consider a potential partner interacting with one of my potential metas.
We went to her place so I could drop off a small care package. I was anxious for a few reasons:
I have social anxiety.
I already know — and have cried about — the fact that they love each other. I have felt it from spending time with them separately and hearing how they interact.
They have always been transparent about their past relationship. Even though they are currently not dating, they are still very close friends.
So, I worried about how they would act around each other in front of me. I tried not to show my anxiety, but I do not have a great poker face.
The interaction itself was good. I mostly sat quietly, watching them talk, joke, care for each other in small ways, share a few kisses, and say “I love you.” It wasn’t a negative experience, but it made me feel a bit uncomfortable. Even later, when it was just the two of us, I still felt uneasy whenever he mentioned her. Honestly, I still feel uncomfortable when he mentions any of my Metas.
But this situation brought something to the surface — something we all try to avoid. The truth is that love is not the same for everyone. Watching them, I realized that if he and I ever reached a place of love, he would never love me the same way he loves her. And even though I like her and hope we can be friends independently of him, that realization still stings.
Driving home, laughing and enjoying his company, I still felt the weight of that truth. Not just with him, but with anyone who has other long‑term or short‑term partners: I will never be loved the same way someone else is. And I will never love two people in the exact same way either.
Objectively, this makes sense. I do not love my friends the same way. Each relationship in my life is unique. That does not make the love less — simply different. But emotionally, this is what makes relationships hard. Most of us grew up in a monogamous society that teaches there is only one “real” romantic love, and that anything different is insignificant. So, when you are faced with the reality of loving multiple people — platonically or romantically — it challenges everything you were taught.
And once you learn something, you cannot unlearn it. The body remembers. The mind remembers.
I am grateful that I witnessed their interaction. It gave me knowledge I did not have before. But with knowledge comes responsibility — a red pill, blue pill moment. I understand now why many people avoid non‑monogamy. It forces you to confront truths about love that society tries to hide.
In my seven months of practicing polyamory, I have learned two important things:
Love is abundant and ever‑flowing. Circumstances may change, but once you love someone, there is usually still love there.
It is impossible to love two people in the exact same way. Each relationship has its own rhythm. The real questions are: Are we willing and capable of learning that rhythm? And are the two people compatible?
I will not pretend I know how to handle all of this. I don’t — especially when it comes to romantic love. But I do know that I have taken the red pill, and I cannot unlearn what I now fully acknowledge.
So, I have a choice. Do I ignore this knowledge and subconsciously sabotage the relationship out of fear and insecurity? Or do I lean toward him, let him in, and allow this to become a moment of vulnerability and connection?
We all face these choices in our relationships. I know which option I will choose, even though it terrifies me.
