Why I Stopped Saying “I Love You” First

FEATURE | AROHA / LOVE

Written & illustrated by Tashi Donnelly (she/her) | @tashi_rd | Feature Editor

In early high school, I got friend-dumped with the attached critique: You only want to talk about the boys you like. Although the friend in question could easily be found guilty of the same, the criticism hit me hard. I didn’t want to be one of those people who poured all their energy into romantic partners while neglecting friendships. Sadly, I knew my friend was somewhat correct. I did tend to lose myself in partners. And I kept doing it, over and over again. 

Romantic love was easier for me to believe in. Society certainly put it up on a pedestal. Born in the 90s, I grew up surrounded by the idea that being in a relationship made you whole, and not being in one meant you were somehow lacking. Movies and TV, even the stuff about friendship groups, focused more on who was hooking up than who was showing up. Every song in the top 40s was about romance or heartbreak. What stuck in my head was that the ultimate goal was to be chosen, completed, and adored.

So, from the age of 13, I was rarely single. I use the term “serial monogamist” to describe my former self. I hopped from one relationship to another, with little space between, if not overlapping. I’m not proud of myself for that, but a part of me was terrified of being alone, and unconvinced that friends could ease that empty feeling entirely. Many contributing factors made this my reality. I had a few best friends over the years who weren’t very nice to me, which made it difficult to trust people. But I had partners over the years who were objectively worse, and I still chased the buzz of being someone's girlfriend 24/7. 

I expected every relationship I was in to complete me, because that’s what I was told it should feel like. When they didn't (because why should they?), I just moved on. I wasn’t taught how to “fix” or “mend” relationships, I just knew how to get into them. I was good at that, the early stages. My neurodivergence lets me hyperfocus on my special person. My emotional dysregulation meant that the highs and lows felt more extreme. The masking and people-pleasing I was doing unconsciously gave me the appearance of successful relationships. I was proud of the fact that most of my relationships lasted a year or longer; I had mates who couldn’t keep a relationship going for more than six months. But I was measuring success by time, outward perception, and the ability to put my needs aside. An ability that would slowly diminish as time went on. 

Although a lot of this was fueled by how society overvalued romantic love, it was also perpetuated by my confusion about platonic love. Where romance felt like a clear image, friendships felt blurry. I wasn't sure what the expectations were, where the boundaries lay, or how I was even supposed to acquire friendship. I was never sure how physically affectionate I should be with a friend, or how much I was supposed to share. I couldn’t tell if they genuinely liked me or were offering me friendship out of pity. In a sad way, I felt more sure of someone's commitment to me if they wanted to have sex with me. And anyway, why would I take a microdose of consistent platonic love over the euphoric high of passionate romantic love? 

To be clear, the majority of my early relationships weren’t bad. Most ended on good terms, with an acknowledgement that we loved each other, but we’d run our course. I learnt a lot about being in relationships, what it takes to be there for someone every day. No one should expect perfection from relationships in your teens, or even early twenties. No one should expect perfection from relationships, full stop. But there was a pattern to mine that is glaringly obvious in hindsight. I didn’t just fear being alone, I didn't know who I was outside of the reflection of someone else’s desire. 

The serial monogamy journey had to end somewhere; for me, it happened at the age of 24. If my stint as a serial monogamist was a rollercoaster ride, the last relationship was the part where the seatbelts failed and the carriage derailed mid-loop. I spent three years in a relationship with an emotionally abusive man who stripped me of whatever sense of self I was holding on to. Worst of all, I’d left one of the healthiest relationships I’d ever been in to be with this man. The stakes were so high. I had to make it work. So I stuck around for the abuse, hoping he would change, hoping my unconditional love would fix him. By the time it ended, I was unwilling to be vulnerable. I vowed to myself that I would never say “I love you” first again. 

You may be a little confused, dear reader, as to how I came to that conclusion. “But Tashi,” you may ask, “What on earth does saying the words I love you have to do with quitting serial monogamy?” And in response, I say: gimme a break, man. I was traumatised. I thought this little rule would help me regain some of the agency I’d been stripped of. I convinced myself that it gave me breathing room to engage in sex and intimacy without falling into the trap of intense, all-consuming romance. I thought it would give me more time to assess my feelings, focus on myself, and my friendships. 

In reality, it was more of a rigid defence. I feared vulnerability because the last person I’d opened my soul to dragged it across hot coals before biffing it in the bin. Being emotionally withholding wasn’t going to fix my issues with relationships, but it felt like something I could control. I swore off ever throwing myself into the fire again, I would not be the catalyst for my own destruction. 

I spent the next three years mostly single. My friends became my most important love connection. I prefaced every intimate relationship I engaged in with one rule: I’m not looking for anything serious. It was good. I spent time by myself. For the first time, I wasn’t scared of it. I was too relieved to be free from the shackles of an abusive man. I didn’t abstain from sex and intimacy, just from throwing myself into another long-term relationship. I know now that I do crave a romantic partner to share my life with, but single/slut era helped me reevaluate my idea of love. 

I’m in a healthy relationship now, and I’m still learning. I didn’t say “I love you” first, and when he said it I didn’t even say “I love you too”. I asked, “Why?”. He was a little surprised by that question, though I hadn’t intended to confuse him. Having spent years with someone who said the words but weaponised them, I needed to know they were safe this time. I’m still unlearning the damage that was done. When I say “I love you” now, it’s less desperate for approval and validation. I’m not chasing completion in someone else.