A friend recently let me borrow Notes on Heartbreak by Annie Lord, a memoir moving back and forth between Annie’s five year relationship with her partner, Joe, and its aftermath.
I recently had a short, but personally meaningful, relationship end. Something at the end of her novel (not truly a spoiler) had me tearing up while seated in my overnight United 11A window seat towards Edinburgh. Here is the excerpt on her understanding of love.
It’s not the electric reaction when you meet someone. It’s not the 100 times you ring their phone when they’re out late. Or the way you press your nose into their pillow because it smells like them. It’s something you actively choose to do. Not an instinct, but something to nurture. It’s a verb, not a noun. It’s as difficult as a full-time job. It’s extending your world view to encompass theirs. It’s total generosity. It’s doing things things even if they won’t notice them. It’s making a fucking massive deal about their birthday. It’s waiting before watching the next episode of something because you said you’d watch it together. It’s trying to be a better person all the time. It’s googling ‘how can you tell someone is depressed?’ or ‘what happens when you drink too much caffeine?’ or anything else that might help them with what they are going through. It’s making those ‘uh-huh’ and ‘mmm’ noises when they’re telling a story so they know you’re still listening. It’s challenging them... It’s telling them when something they said hurt and then interrogating yourself to understand why it hurt you. It’s respecting them enough to understand that although you wouldn’t have done it that way, they had their reasons.
The choice part. It’s been a concept ringing in my ears through podcasts and highlighted in so many novels and memoirs I’ve digested the past ten years. At the beginning of the book, you can see that she did not adopt this philosophy, as many of us are sold that love is fairytale, a “happily ever after”, the other person reading your mind, blinding obsession, butterflies, intensity and passion, and holding stereos over our heads (well, not my head — obviously I’d be looking out the window and releasing my long hair to use as a rope).
But all of that is fleeting. It’s feelings that ebb and flow and wobble. And if we aren’t clear on what matters most when any negative feelings arise, we can lose the connection with each other and the connection to ourselves.
That’s why the choice, our loyalty, isn’t just to the relationship, but to us as individuals.
Annie shares a lesson from the relationship deity herself, Esther Perel.
Love rests on two pillars: surrender and autonomy. Our need for togetherness exists alongside our need for separateness. One does not exist without the other. With too much distance, there can be no connection.
This balancing act that takes practice, patience, and awareness, which is why we reflect, and attend therapy, and phone a friend. We don’t want to muck this up. We put in the work and try to become these whole beings because the older we get (and the more heartbreaks and disappointments we endure) the more programmed and armored up we become with all this knowledge on communication, capacity, healing and attachments. We think this keeps us safe from all the negative that could occur in the relationship arena.
But it’s not true. Education and application are two very different things. It will still always take risk and choice to love and continue to love. The knowing of love can even be a bit like skydiving.
Someone wishing to skydive can rehearse scenarios, read into the mechanics, materials, and metrics involved, the types of landscapes to expect, the planes serviced, the science, and the very force of nature, herself — gravity. It can instill a sense of control and preparedness. However, the action of skydiving can be an overwhelm to even the most well-trained senses. The shouting of a propellor; the pressure pounding in our ears; our hearts beating wildly in our chests as we ascend towards the heavens. It’s not even close in comparison.
So with love, no matter how much work we’ve done, it’s not going to be textbook. There will be triggers and upsets and mistakes that require hard conversations, grace, and an offering of safety to say the messy things because you choose to be that partner. You work at being the best version of yourself.
And, in all of this, there is this caveat. The flashing red light.
Sometimes, the person joining your flight truly believes they are ready for the adventure. They feel pumped carrying that parachute to the plane and get excited to feel the rumbling of the engine, they were even the ones who purchased the tickets, but as you both climb higher, they realize how serious it is. The sweaty palms, the gusting winds, the comprehension of reality sinking in. When they are stood looking down at the earth beside you and the descent makes them gasp with dizziness, not everyone will jump. They will let your hand go right when you desire it most. You especially can’t force them to dive head first, because if you do, the landing will only hurt more. You may be pulled further off course than realized, or even worse, lose your compass entirely while you try to pull their string before grabbing your own.
This is a revisited lesson, more to myself, but most likely one I don’t visit alone. That’s where the surrender and autonomy come in. To know that autonomy and keeping ourselves intact is just as important as the surrender; to not lose sight of your worth simply because you’ve swiftly lost your sky diving companion. They weren’t ready and that’s okay. And whether they tell you why or simply abandon the plane without a word, you’re still alive. You’re still you, in one piece. It’s not over. Don’t forsaken your parachute or dent the plane. You will get to skydive one day, and it’s because it’s a choice you make with someone else. Don’t let the guise of excitement or thrill fool you in someone. Look for the steady breath; look for the calm hands; look for the one who will place one firmly in yours and count you down so you can both jump in tandem.
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