The fairy-tale version of relationships portrays love as a seamless merging of two lives, a union where two halves become whole. Where one completes the other. The over-idealized cultural myth is that the closer two people become, the more their lives will intertwine, forming a perfect harmony of interests, desires, and needs. It’s an ideal many of us unconsciously strive for when we enter into romantic partnerships—seeking not only closeness but a kind of fusion that promises to eradicate loneliness, soothe insecurities, and protect us from the pain.
We may think that harmony means agreement, that love requires sameness. Yet, the real work of a mature relationship isn’t about seamless unity; it’s about managing the tension between difference and otherness. Between our desire for closeness and the necessity of individual growth. These tensions often expose our deepest insecurities and longings.
At its core, the impulse to have a partner who is just like us on as many levels as possible is a fantasy driven by the desire for security, which is rooted in fear. Fear of rejection, fear of conflict, fear of the discomfort that comes with navigating another person’s distinct self. We conflate safety with sameness, seeking constant affirmation as reassurance that the relationship is secure. But in doing so, we inadvertently stifle the potential for both personal and relational evolution. The real test of a relationship’s maturity lies not in how well we erase our differences but in how we honor and navigate them.
This is where love begins to move from the realm of infatuation to the more difficult, often uncomfortable territory of mature intimacy. Real love doesn’t ask us to smooth over the differences between us and our partner; it demands that we learn to dwell in the discomfort of those differences. The space where two distinct selves meet, is where the real work of love happens. It’s not about resolving conflict by finding ways to avoid our partner’s otherness. It’s about expanding our capacity to integrate their differences into the relationship without feeling threatened or diminished. It’s about acknowledging that difference, their otherness as a gift not a threat.
When we resist the urge to control or change our partner to fit our ideal visions, we open the door to a relationship that’s not only more sophisticated but also more resilient. A relationship built on mutual respect for individuality is stronger than one founded on the illusion of sameness. This means surrendering the narcissistic fantasy that our partner will reflect back to us only what we want to see. Instead, we must be willing to see them as they truly are—complex, contradictory, and uniquely themselves.
This isn’t to say that love is devoid of compromise or shared goals. But it’s a mistake to think that compromise should come at the expense of individuality. In an evolving relationship, differences aren’t merely tolerated—they become an ingredient of growth. The healthiest partnerships allow both people to maintain their distinct selves while also co-creating a shared life. This balancing act, while challenging, is the hallmark of a mature relationship. It’s the acknowledgment that our partner is an "other," with their own set of desires, wounds, and perspectives, and it’s in holding space for their complexity that we cultivate true intimacy.
When we stop expecting our partner to mirror us and start embracing the ways they challenge us, we begin to see the true potential of love—not as a way to reinforce our own identity but as a means of expanding it.
In this sense, love becomes less about securing comfort and more about fostering transformation. This is when love isn’t about finding someone who completes us. It’s about finding someone who invites us to become more complete on our own terms, as we do the same for them.
The most successful relationships are those that thrive not in spite of difference but because of it. They’re relationships that understand love as a process of continual discovery, where the "otherness" of the other person is not a threat but a source of deep connection. This is the hard work of love: to maintain our individuality while making room for the other, to honor both the distance and the closeness, and to find joy in the dance between the two.
All of this sounds great, I know. It’s poetic. Philosophical. Analytical. Existential. It makes sense, right? But the reality is that this kind of theoretical ideal is incredibly difficult to live out. Because it’s those very differences—the experience of being "othered" or encountering the "other"—that trigger the wounds we all carry from childhood and cultural traumas. We’ve all built defenses around ourselves, reinforced by the self-help industry and modern relationship trends, to resist the idea that love isn’t the mushy, romantic fantasy we were sold as kids. I’m currently testing this theory in my own relationship. I’m someone who wants to get wrapped up in a codependent blanket of comfort. I’d willingly lose myself just to feel loved—a leftover from the trauma I inherited from my mother. I know this instinct, this infantile desire, doesn’t serve me. It’s not healthy for my journey toward finding real solace and security within myself.
So, I’m trying this new approach out for size. But what I want to emphasize is that I believe this is our life’s work—not just something for this week or next year, but a process that unfolds over the course of our entire lives. I believe this is part of my purpose, and potentially yours too. This cycle of growth, wounding, and repair is something we all go through continuously. And I’m not talking about career growth or financial success, but about the growth of our inner spirit, our soul (for lack of a better word)—if you’re open to it. I know this might seem like I’ve been discouraging the idea of the “we” we often strive for in relationships, or promoting an unbothered state when it comes to major differences that cause conflict and disappointment. But that’s not it. It’s more about understanding that we truly need other people—not to complete us, but to walk alongside us on this journey. We can’t grow on our own. We can’t challenge our internal worlds or heal our unresolved wounds by ourselves. We literally need the other—not for the sake of completion, but for the sake of growth. And if we’re open to it, relationships can help us grow into versions of ourselves that are more aligned with who we want to be and who we feel we are at our core.
Buy my book, How To Love Someone Without Losing Your Mind. 📚🫶😇🤓❤️.
The beauty of a relationship is learning from each other. Too often, what frustrates us in a partner is exactly what we don't tolerate in ourselves. If we feel as if we had to be perfect all the time and therefore can't be later, a partner that's ten minutes late to everything will exhasperate us, but they might be teaching us that it's ok to take our time, and that we can be more flexible in life as whole.