The lessons I learned about love: Renunciation and Revelation

photo by : ArtWear Creations

When one said "I love you" to the other, it imprisoned them, placing a brake on the other's unpredictability and freedom. This seemingly simple phrase hides within itself a fundamental paradox of love: by saying it, one affirms the existence of that feeling, yet also establishes an invisible boundary that encloses it. To say “I love you” is not only a declaration—it is an action that transforms. It is like throwing a stone into the still waters of another’s solitude: it creates ripples, disturbs the balance, alters the natural course of things. It was as if, by uttering those words, an invisible but firm border had been drawn—a fence of affection that, though unseen, began to define the margins through which each could move. Love, in its purest form, is movement, fluidity, something that escapes control; but when named, when grasped with language, structure is imposed upon it, shape is given, and within that shape there always lies a shadow of limitation.

Neither accepted this truth outright, both insisting they were constant in their feelings and faithful to their individuality. Yet something within the human condition makes it nearly impossible to sustain such a claim without cracks. For to love inevitably means to change. One does not love from stillness; one loves from inner motion, from reconfiguration of emotions, from continuous adaptation to the presence of the other. And in that process—though neither declared it—there was always a silent renunciation: the letting go of being exactly who they once were before meeting the other. Neither he nor she wanted to recognize that beneath the appearance of total giving lay a quiet demand: fidelity not only physical, but emotional, psychological, almost existential. They assured each other they could love without possession, that love was not ownership, that they could support each other without annihilation. But this, though spoken with conviction, was a fragile illusion. Because when love is lived intensely, it alters the inner forms of the one who loves. It does not change the essence, but it changes expression—the way of seeing, walking, dreaming.

But here, precisely where love was declared, there was a renunciation—and without realizing it, they refrained from certain gestures in their behavior, and love gained another dimension. This new way of being together did not arise from explicit pacts or solemn promises, but from invisible decisions, omitted gestures, words left unsaid out of respect or fear. In the silence of these small absences, love took shape. It ceased to be only desire and became care, consideration, mutual restraint. No longer enough to simply feel: now, every word had to be measured, each glance weighed, each distance calculated.

Two common patterns of thought, habits, and traditional behaviors emerged, creating a new order. At first, this seemed like progress, proof they could build something solid between them. Mornings began to have a shared ritual, afternoons acquired a synchronized rhythm, nights filled with a complicit calm. They were like two trees, long separated, beginning to intertwine their roots beneath the earth. What happens there cannot be seen, but it is real, essential. The everyday became sacred territory, because it held proof that love was not only fire, but also warm ash. And in that ash, in that routine, lay the hidden promise of continuity. It was also silence, omission, quiet choices not to speak certain things, not to make certain gestures. These invisible decisions wove a new emotional skin, a protective layer stitched from threads of care, fear, and hope. In that act of restraint, of choosing not to push the limits of one’s own freedom, love grew denser. It ceased to be light as air and became heavy as water—deep, thick, sometimes dark.

And just as rivers divide into two arms—one navigable, trustworthy and calm, the other winding, full of traps, improbable—so too did the lovers proceed along their path. One of these arms represented the public life they showed the world: synchronized smiles, shared projects, decisions made in unison. It was love’s visible face, the one displayed on social media, in photographs, in nostalgic anecdotes. That part was easy to navigate, predictable, even romantic. But the other arm, the underground one, carried the cracks, the doubts, the unspoken desires, the words caught in the throat for fear of hurting. There flowed the true river of love: dark, uneven, sometimes dangerous, yet authentic. Within that shadowed current ran the true story of their love—not perfect, not eternal, but all the more beautiful precisely because of its fragility.

This was revealed to them by merit of their own experience: the conditional nature of love and its emotional imprisonment. For love is not absolute. It is relative, dependent on many factors: each person’s emotional state, external circumstances, the ability to endure time without losing tenderness. Conditionality is not weakness, nor is it a flaw—it is an inherent feature of the human experience, a truth few are willing to acknowledge. Loving is not a single act, but a series of daily choices, conscious and unconscious, defining how much we give and how much we keep. And in each decision lies a renunciation—an intentional choice of what not to do, not to say, not to live, out of respect for the other.

Emotional imprisonment, then, does not stem solely from the desire to possess the other, but from the fear of losing oneself in the attempt—and of losing the other as a consequence. It is the fear of dissolving within the bond, of becoming a shadow of who one once was. Thus, one begins to limit oneself from within, without anyone demanding it, believing this preserves identity. An opinion is silenced, a confrontation avoided, a dream postponed. But slowly, this restraint builds an invisible prison, made of silences and concessions. And within that enclosed space, love may wither—not out of malice, but from lack of air.

Yet it is within this very duality, this tension between freedom and surrender, that the essence of human connection is found. Love is not a straight line; it is a continuous curve, a spiral rising and falling, drawing near and moving away. It cannot be contained within a single metaphor, for it is many things at once: shelter and storm, certainty and mystery, light and shadow. Perhaps precisely for this reason, it is so powerful. Because it contains within itself the fundamental contradiction of existence: the desire to be free while longing to belong.

Thus, they learned—not suddenly, but gradually, day by day—that love is not about possession, but presence. To be present does not mean always being available, but knowing when to speak, when to remain silent, when to let go. They understood that renouncing is not betrayal, but a conscious choice of which parts of themselves to offer and which to keep. And in the process, they discovered that the greatest revelation was not in the other, but in the journey they undertook together toward themselves.

For true love does not complete us—it uncovers us. It shows our wounds, our fears, our lacks, but also our internal resources, our capacity to heal, to change, to forgive. And in that exposure, in that shared vulnerability, something stronger than possession emerges: authentic intimacy. A connection that does not depend on the words “I love you” to hold itself together, but on a knowing look, a silent gesture, a shared silence.

So passed their story—with ups and downs, mistakes, moments of clarity and others of darkness. But always with the will to keep trying, to keep learning. Because love, ultimately, is a constant school. And like any school, it has no end. It is only attended for as long as one lives.

And although at times they wished they had been freer, at others they were grateful for having held back. For they came to understand that love is not a single path, but a perpetual fork. Two rivers flowing parallel, sometimes merging, sometimes separating—but always nourishing one another. And in that flow, in the dance of encounters and separations, they found the closest thing to truth: that to love is to accept that we will never know everything about the other—or ourselves—but that it is still worth searching.

This essay, then, does not seek to provide answers, but to raise questions. Is it possible to love without renouncing? To what extent is total surrender compatible with personal identity? How can one find balance between freedom and emotional responsibility? These are questions each person must answer in the privacy of their own conscience, beside the other—or without them. For love is not theory; it is practice. And like all practice, it demands patience, error, adjustment, and perseverance.

What remains clear is that love is not static. It changes, transforms, adapts. Sometimes it stagnates, other times it flourishes. And amid all of this, there is always a renunciation and a revelation. The renunciation of not having everything, of not controlling everything. And the revelation that, despite it all, love remains the best way to inhabit the world.

This, knowingly or not, is known by whoever loves…