By Stephanie Shaakaa
We don’t have a love problem.
We have a courage problem.
Valentine’s Day is almost here. Restaurants will inflate menus. Roses will multiply. Instagram will glow with candlelight and filtered affection. We will post, repost, and perform certainty.
And for a few hours, it will look like everyone knows how to love.
But do we?
We talk about love like experts and practice it like amateurs. We want connection, but not exposure. We want intimacy, but on our terms. We want loyalty, but with options. We want reassurance, but without having to ask for it.
Somewhere along the way, love stopped being something we choose and became something we optimize.
We don’t enter relationships empty-handed anymore. We enter with analytics.
Who likes us more?
Who has more leverage?
Who will fold first?
We call it standards. Sometimes it’s just strategy.
We keep backups. We archive chats instead of deleting them. Just in case. We stay in “talking stages” long enough to feel wanted but not long enough to be accountable. We say we’re protecting our peace. Sometimes we’re protecting our exit.
Modern love is not cold. It is cautious. Intensely, quietly cautious.
And caution feels wise until it turns into distance.
You can see it in small moments.
Two people in the same bed, backs touching, both scrolling. The room is lit by two separate screens. There is something one of them needs to say. A reassurance. A fear. A need. The words form. Then disappear. Because asking feels risky. Because what if the answer shifts the balance?
So we stay quiet.
We laugh the next morning.
We post the dinner.
Love does not collapse in dramatic explosions. It erodes in withheld honesty.
We are not loveless.
We are afraid.
Afraid of repeating old heartbreak. Afraid of choosing wrong. Afraid of staying too long. Afraid of being the one who cares more. So we ration affection. We measure effort. We give carefully calculated doses of vulnerability and call it emotional intelligence.
We don’t want devotion.
We want devotion with an escape plan.
Technology has made this easier. There is always another profile. Another conversation. Another “what are you doing?” at 11:47 p.m. Disagreement no longer feels like something to work through. It feels like a sign to upgrade.
Love used to be tested by hardship. Now it is defeated by inconvenience.
This isn’t just about apps or culture.
It’s about us.
We want to be chosen every day without fully choosing anyone. We want to feel secure without surrendering control. We want someone to fight for us while we quietly calculate whether we should keep fighting for them.
And then we wonder why love feels thin.
Being a good lover today is almost rebellious.
It means staying when ego says leave.
Communicating when silence would be easier.
Apologizing without attaching a defense.
Letting someone see the insecure parts you usually edit out.
It also means knowing when to walk away not dramatically, not vengefully but with clarity. Loving well does not mean tolerating disrespect. It means knowing the difference between discomfort that grows you and behavior that diminishes you.
But most of us are not struggling with abuse.
We are struggling with exposure.
A message sits in drafts, “Are we okay?”
It has been typed and deleted three times.
Not because the answer is unknown.
But because clarity changes things. And change feels dangerous.
So we stay in ambiguity.
We call it understanding.
We call it giving space.
Sometimes it is just fear dressed as maturity.
Valentine’s Day will come and go. Photos will trend. Flowers will wilt. The captions will fade into the algorithm.
And many of us will return to relationships where we are desired but not deeply known.
Love is not failing.
Courage is.
Maybe love is not asking too much. Maybe we are offering too little. Maybe we have mastered attraction but forgotten how to remain. Maybe we are addicted to the feeling of being wanted and terrified of the responsibility of being chosen.
This Valentine’s Day, the boldest romantic act may not be a public surprise or a carefully staged dinner.
It may be a private decision.
To stop auditioning.
To stop hedging.
To stop loving with calculators.
To choose fully, vulnerably or to admit you are not ready.
Because love has not changed.
But we have become careful to the point of loneliness.
And at some point, we must decide whether we want to keep performing love
or finally practice it.
We are not afraid of love failing,we are afraid of being seen without a backup plan.
Shaakaa can be reached through:
shaakaastephanie@yahoo.com
