Transcript
I want you to picture this. You’re staring at your phone, rereading the last text you sent. It’s been hours. Your stomach is in knots. A hundred different scenarios are playing out in your head. Did I say the wrong thing? Are they mad at me? Are they losing interest? You try to put the phone down and focus on work or a movie, but the anxiety is unbearable. This relationship has become your whole world.
If this sounds painfully familiar, you’ve felt anxious attachment.
To understand it, think about a slot machine. You pull the handle. Sometimes you win, sometimes you don’t, and that uncertainty keeps you hooked. The same thing happens when love is inconsistent.
If you’re anxiously attached, your parents probably did love you. But it was love that came and went without warning. Maybe your mom was loving, but only when she wasn’t stressed. Maybe one parent traveled a lot for work, and the other was stretched thin trying to keep everything together. Maybe you had to compete for attention with siblings, or one or both of your parents were barely around at all. Over time, you learned a painful lesson: love exists, but I can’t count on it. And deep down, you started believing, if I were more lovable, maybe love wouldn’t leave me again.
That’s why, as an adult, you fall in love fast and get attached quickly. You crave the reassurance of feeling loved and wanted. When someone texts you back quickly, you feel amazing. It feels like coming home.
But the moment the other person pulls back, changes their tone, or starts canceling plans, your attachment wound spirals. You check your phone, reread conversations, and analyze everything, searching for rejection before it happens. That childhood fear of abandonment kicks in, and you go into overdrive trying to fix the connection.
You’re not being crazy or needy. Your body learned that love can disappear at any moment. It feels like addiction because it is one. Those unpredictable doses of affection trigger dopamine the same way gambling or drugs do. Your brain keeps chasing the high of connection, even when the relationship is hurting you.
That’s why anxious people so often end up with avoidants. On the surface, it looks like a terrible match. One person needs closeness, while the other runs from it. But avoidant people feel familiar. Their push and pull matches the emotional rhythm you grew up with. Love that comes and goes. As strange as it sounds, that inconsistency feels like home. You know how to survive it. You’ve been training for it since childhood.
At first, it feels intoxicating. Avoidant people often show up strong in the beginning. They flirt deeply, open up emotionally, and make you feel special, like you’ve finally found what you’ve been longing for. But once intimacy builds, they shift. They get quiet, distant, or cold. They stop texting like they used to. They seem irritated when you ask for reassurance. Instantly, that old panic flares up inside you. I did something wrong. I’m losing them.
And just like that, you’re a child again, trying to figure out what you did wrong.
Instead of seeing their withdrawal as a red flag about them, your childhood wiring tells you it’s a problem you need to solve. You double down. You try to be more understanding, more patient, more loving. You start walking on eggshells, trying to be the perfect partner so they won’t leave. Your survival brain whispers, if I can just say or do the right thing, I can win their love back.
So it’s no wonder you stay. On some level, your nervous system thinks, this is love. The rush you feel when they come back after pulling away feels like safety, but it’s not safety. It’s relief. The same relief an addict feels when they finally get what they’ve been craving. It’s a loop of anxiety and relief that keeps you hooked. If I’m kind enough, pretty enough, patient enough, maybe they’ll choose me. Maybe they’ll finally see I’m the one.
It feels impossible to walk away because your nervous system is reacting the same way it did as a child, when losing a parent’s attention felt like life or death.
Psychologists sometimes call this the eroticism of abandonment. You don’t really feel the spark unless someone pulls away from you just a little.
So when you meet someone different, a securely attached person who offers calm, consistent love, it can feel boring. You tell yourself there’s no chemistry, but what’s really happening is your nervous system isn’t being activated. The spark you’re used to was never love. It was anxiety.
I want you to really hear this. Love is not anxiety.
The panic, the butterflies, the obsession, the way your heart won’t settle, that’s not love. That’s your inner child still waiting on the front porch, hoping someone will finally come home.
Real love doesn’t feel like that. It’s not guessing, chasing, walking on eggshells, or trying to earn someone’s attention. It feels calm and steady, like you can finally take a full breath.
Real love is secure. It’s two people who show up, communicate, and make each other feel safe. No drama. No games. No begging for reassurance.
Anxiety is not love. Feeling safe is love.
Read More
Transcript
I want you to picture this. You’re staring at your phone, rereading the last text you sent. It’s been hours. Your stomach is in knots. A hundred different scenarios are playing out in your head. Did I say the wrong thing? Are they mad at me? Are they losing interest? You try to put the phone down and focus on work or a movie, but the anxiety is unbearable. This relationship has become your whole world.
If this sounds painfully familiar, you’ve felt anxious attachment.
To understand it, think about a slot machine. You pull the handle. Sometimes you win, sometimes you don’t, and that uncertainty keeps you hooked. The same thing happens when love is inconsistent.
If you’re anxiously attached, your parents probably did love you. But it was love that came and went without warning. Maybe your mom was loving, but only when she wasn’t stressed. Maybe one parent traveled a lot for work, and the other was stretched thin trying to keep everything together. Maybe you had to compete for attention with siblings, or one or both of your parents were barely around at all. Over time, you learned a painful lesson: love exists, but I can’t count on it. And deep down, you started believing, if I were more lovable, maybe love wouldn’t leave me again.
That’s why, as an adult, you fall in love fast and get attached quickly. You crave the reassurance of feeling loved and wanted. When someone texts you back quickly, you feel amazing. It feels like coming home.
But the moment the other person pulls back, changes their tone, or starts canceling plans, your attachment wound spirals. You check your phone, reread conversations, and analyze everything, searching for rejection before it happens. That childhood fear of abandonment kicks in, and you go into overdrive trying to fix the connection.
You’re not being crazy or needy. Your body learned that love can disappear at any moment. It feels like addiction because it is one. Those unpredictable doses of affection trigger dopamine the same way gambling or drugs do. Your brain keeps chasing the high of connection, even when the relationship is hurting you.
That’s why anxious people so often end up with avoidants. On the surface, it looks like a terrible match. One person needs closeness, while the other runs from it. But avoidant people feel familiar. Their push and pull matches the emotional rhythm you grew up with. Love that comes and goes. As strange as it sounds, that inconsistency feels like home. You know how to survive it. You’ve been training for it since childhood.
At first, it feels intoxicating. Avoidant people often show up strong in the beginning. They flirt deeply, open up emotionally, and make you feel special, like you’ve finally found what you’ve been longing for. But once intimacy builds, they shift. They get quiet, distant, or cold. They stop texting like they used to. They seem irritated when you ask for reassurance. Instantly, that old panic flares up inside you. I did something wrong. I’m losing them.
And just like that, you’re a child again, trying to figure out what you did wrong.
Instead of seeing their withdrawal as a red flag about them, your childhood wiring tells you it’s a problem you need to solve. You double down. You try to be more understanding, more patient, more loving. You start walking on eggshells, trying to be the perfect partner so they won’t leave. Your survival brain whispers, if I can just say or do the right thing, I can win their love back.
So it’s no wonder you stay. On some level, your nervous system thinks, this is love. The rush you feel when they come back after pulling away feels like safety, but it’s not safety. It’s relief. The same relief an addict feels when they finally get what they’ve been craving. It’s a loop of anxiety and relief that keeps you hooked. If I’m kind enough, pretty enough, patient enough, maybe they’ll choose me. Maybe they’ll finally see I’m the one.
It feels impossible to walk away because your nervous system is reacting the same way it did as a child, when losing a parent’s attention felt like life or death.
Psychologists sometimes call this the eroticism of abandonment. You don’t really feel the spark unless someone pulls away from you just a little.
So when you meet someone different, a securely attached person who offers calm, consistent love, it can feel boring. You tell yourself there’s no chemistry, but what’s really happening is your nervous system isn’t being activated. The spark you’re used to was never love. It was anxiety.
I want you to really hear this. Love is not anxiety.
The panic, the butterflies, the obsession, the way your heart won’t settle, that’s not love. That’s your inner child still waiting on the front porch, hoping someone will finally come home.
Real love doesn’t feel like that. It’s not guessing, chasing, walking on eggshells, or trying to earn someone’s attention. It feels calm and steady, like you can finally take a full breath.
Real love is secure. It’s two people who show up, communicate, and make each other feel safe. No drama. No games. No begging for reassurance.
Anxiety is not love. Feeling safe is love.
Read More
Transcript
I want you to picture this. You’re staring at your phone, rereading the last text you sent. It’s been hours. Your stomach is in knots. A hundred different scenarios are playing out in your head. Did I say the wrong thing? Are they mad at me? Are they losing interest? You try to put the phone down and focus on work or a movie, but the anxiety is unbearable. This relationship has become your whole world.
If this sounds painfully familiar, you’ve felt anxious attachment.
To understand it, think about a slot machine. You pull the handle. Sometimes you win, sometimes you don’t, and that uncertainty keeps you hooked. The same thing happens when love is inconsistent.
If you’re anxiously attached, your parents probably did love you. But it was love that came and went without warning. Maybe your mom was loving, but only when she wasn’t stressed. Maybe one parent traveled a lot for work, and the other was stretched thin trying to keep everything together. Maybe you had to compete for attention with siblings, or one or both of your parents were barely around at all. Over time, you learned a painful lesson: love exists, but I can’t count on it. And deep down, you started believing, if I were more lovable, maybe love wouldn’t leave me again.
That’s why, as an adult, you fall in love fast and get attached quickly. You crave the reassurance of feeling loved and wanted. When someone texts you back quickly, you feel amazing. It feels like coming home.
But the moment the other person pulls back, changes their tone, or starts canceling plans, your attachment wound spirals. You check your phone, reread conversations, and analyze everything, searching for rejection before it happens. That childhood fear of abandonment kicks in, and you go into overdrive trying to fix the connection.
You’re not being crazy or needy. Your body learned that love can disappear at any moment. It feels like addiction because it is one. Those unpredictable doses of affection trigger dopamine the same way gambling or drugs do. Your brain keeps chasing the high of connection, even when the relationship is hurting you.
That’s why anxious people so often end up with avoidants. On the surface, it looks like a terrible match. One person needs closeness, while the other runs from it. But avoidant people feel familiar. Their push and pull matches the emotional rhythm you grew up with. Love that comes and goes. As strange as it sounds, that inconsistency feels like home. You know how to survive it. You’ve been training for it since childhood.
At first, it feels intoxicating. Avoidant people often show up strong in the beginning. They flirt deeply, open up emotionally, and make you feel special, like you’ve finally found what you’ve been longing for. But once intimacy builds, they shift. They get quiet, distant, or cold. They stop texting like they used to. They seem irritated when you ask for reassurance. Instantly, that old panic flares up inside you. I did something wrong. I’m losing them.
And just like that, you’re a child again, trying to figure out what you did wrong.
Instead of seeing their withdrawal as a red flag about them, your childhood wiring tells you it’s a problem you need to solve. You double down. You try to be more understanding, more patient, more loving. You start walking on eggshells, trying to be the perfect partner so they won’t leave. Your survival brain whispers, if I can just say or do the right thing, I can win their love back.
So it’s no wonder you stay. On some level, your nervous system thinks, this is love. The rush you feel when they come back after pulling away feels like safety, but it’s not safety. It’s relief. The same relief an addict feels when they finally get what they’ve been craving. It’s a loop of anxiety and relief that keeps you hooked. If I’m kind enough, pretty enough, patient enough, maybe they’ll choose me. Maybe they’ll finally see I’m the one.
It feels impossible to walk away because your nervous system is reacting the same way it did as a child, when losing a parent’s attention felt like life or death.
Psychologists sometimes call this the eroticism of abandonment. You don’t really feel the spark unless someone pulls away from you just a little.
So when you meet someone different, a securely attached person who offers calm, consistent love, it can feel boring. You tell yourself there’s no chemistry, but what’s really happening is your nervous system isn’t being activated. The spark you’re used to was never love. It was anxiety.
I want you to really hear this. Love is not anxiety.
The panic, the butterflies, the obsession, the way your heart won’t settle, that’s not love. That’s your inner child still waiting on the front porch, hoping someone will finally come home.
Real love doesn’t feel like that. It’s not guessing, chasing, walking on eggshells, or trying to earn someone’s attention. It feels calm and steady, like you can finally take a full breath.
Real love is secure. It’s two people who show up, communicate, and make each other feel safe. No drama. No games. No begging for reassurance.
Anxiety is not love. Feeling safe is love.