We live in a society obsessed with labels. We label everything from sexuality, personality type, and cognitive style to politics, race, and religion. While there are so many roads to explore in regards to the concept of labels (and I think all are necessary paths to go down eventually), today I want to talk specifically about another thing we’re obsessed with labeling: we love labeling love.
Before we get to that, however, we must establish what exactly a label is, and what separates it from any other word or phrase. In my view, what most separates a label from what I would term a “descriptor” is specificity; or rather, a lack thereof. Labels also tend to be somewhat arbitrary, and highly subjective. None of this is problematic per se, but it can lead to certain issues. Descriptors, on the other hand, are usually specific, objective, and measurable.
As with many things, the line between labels and descriptors can be fuzzy, and one might say that a spectrum exists between the two, with measurable conditions like most physical ailments on one side, partially defined labels, such as those related to sexuality or certain ethical views in the middle, and poorly-defined labels like most political terms on the far end. Nonetheless, when one compares terms from opposite parts of the spectrum, the distinctions become clear.
When I use labels like “vegan” or “asexual,” they don’t communicate a whole lot about me, and they can lead to a lot of faulty assumptions (one of the biggest problems with most labels is that they’re overly simplistic), but they each communicate one thing effectively. Anyone who hears me call myself asexual and vegan, for instance, would (hopefully) know that hamburgers and hookups wouldn’t be my idea of a fun night out.
Far-end labels, on the other hand, such as “liberal” and “conservative,” often don’t even communicate one thing effectively, due to the sheer diversity of definitions given for those words. Ask twelve people to define what it means to be liberal, and you’ll get thirteen different answers. Such labels only become useful when you know the specific definitions of the person using them within the given context.
But enough about labels in general. Let’s talk about love.
There aren’t a whole lot of labels that people use to describe love, but the few that exist are pervasive. In particular, the ones I’ve heard most often are “familial,” “platonic,” and of course, “romantic,” and the closely-related “being in love.” You might also consider the concept of crushes or “puppy love.” But what do any of these labels actually mean?
They are labels, after all — unless you’re getting a brain scan done every day, love couldn’t possibly be measurable; it’s the very definition of subjective, as your feelings can only ever exist in your own mind. Any lines between different “types of love” are arbitrary, as there’s no law of nature on which to base them.
Additionally, they’re nonspecific, if my own experiences have taught me anything; when I suddenly found myself feeling an overwhelming love for and attraction to my best friend Ben, I endeavored to uncover the difference between “romantic” love and other types of love. In doing so, I consulted family members, friends, Google, and even ChatGPT, but almost every answer I got relied on vague platitudes and circular reasoning.
A few answers stood out; for instance, Ben described romantic love as a forest fire which grows big, burns hot, and fades fast, while platonic love is more like the slow-burning flame on a candle which lasts until the end — a wholesome allusion, but not very practical. ChatGPT, after lots of frustrating back and forth, finally conceded that “the distinctions between platonic and romantic love can be fluid and context-dependent” — a perfectly reasonable answer, but of course, that was the last thing I wanted to hear.
My father’s answer stood out for being the most decisive and the simplest. I thought his nearly 30-year relationship with my mother, who he considers his best friend, might give the man some insight! The culmination of his experience intrigued me, but provided me no answers. His words were “I don’t know.” No matter where I looked, the message was more or less the same: “You’re on your own, buddy.”
It certainly didn’t help that the therapist I was seeing at the time kept asking me the same question I’d been asking myself — and not just about Ben, but about my other friends, as well. At first, my words to her were the same as my father’s words to me, but it only increased my drive to find an answer… an answer that likely didn’t exist.
For weeks, I tormented myself over the question — I’ve always had a nasty habit of living inside my own head, and not knowing didn’t help. It’s not just that I didn’t know, but the fact that no one seemed to know. Maybe I was in love with Ben, but if so, did that mean I had also been in love with my friend Raine? Since my close friend Chris had been in love with Raine during the time period in question, the thought made me feel pretty shitty. I always said she was like a younger sister to me, so I must love her in a familial way… Right?
Maybe I was in love with Ben, but did that mean I was in love with my friend Brighid, as well? I was beginning to feel an intense loving for and attraction to her around the same time. The implications of being “in love with” two people at the same time didn’t make me feel very good about myself, either. On top of the self-judgment, I feared societal judgment and judgment from my friends that might emerge with such a displeasing conclusion.
Still, I felt like I needed some way of explaining what I was feeling, so I resigned to telling myself that I did love Ben romantically, but that I didn’t necessarily feel the same way about Brighid or Raine, even if I couldn’t discern what the difference was — perhaps it was a difference of degree and not kind; perhaps the love I felt for all three of them existed within a millimeter of the imaginary lines which divide ‘romantic’ love from “platonic” or “familial” love, and that’s why it was so hard to tell.
With my newfound resignation to the label of romantic love (in my own head, at least; I didn’t tell another soul), I suddenly started wanting to do things with Ben that I hadn’t desired before. Romantic things. Or at least, things that popular culture and AI chatbots told me were ‘romantic.” Things like playing footsie or holding hands or soul gazing. It’s not necessarily that I felt naturally inclined to want these things, but more that, on some strange, subconscious level, I felt that I was supposed to. After all, I loved Ben romantically and these were romantic things to do.
…And therein lies the toxic power of labels.
It quickly became clear that I was making Ben uncomfortable, and that, despite being my best friend and identifying as biromantic, he wasn’t interested in me “in that way.” I’d walked myself right into a trap. I couldn’t back out now; not the way I came in, at least. If I told myself I loved Ben platonically after all, then how could I explain the urges to hold his hand and stare into his eyes? How else could I explain the fact that I had been not-so-subtly hitting on him (I thought I was subtle), or the dread I felt when it became clear he wasn’t into me?
Of course, I did the obvious thing to do in this situation: I doubled down, just to be sure. But I was only making him more uncomfortable, and I felt guilty about it. I knew I would have to take some time apart from him to reflect and sort myself out, or I might risk pushing him away. I couldn’t lose another best friend. But I didn’t want to take any time apart, either. I almost felt that I couldn’t.
As luck would have it, however, I came down with the stomach bug (I never thought I’d utter those words in my life.) It was a blessing in disguise, because it forced me to self-isolate — I certainly love Ben and all of my other friends enough to not want to get them sick. My week apart helped me to put things in perspective, which in turn helped me to consciously dial back my feelings for Ben.
It was about two months later that I finally had the courage to confess to Ben that I thought I had been in love with him — although I wasn’t any more certain than I had been months ago, I was still more or less convinced that’s what it was. He just smiled his characteristic smile and said “I know.” It felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders; not necessarily because my feelings were validated or because I understood them any better, but simply because I knew that Ben still loved and accepted me, even if I had been in love with him.
I was emotionally stable — for now. A couple weeks later, however, I started questioning my feelings again, this time for Brighid. I started reconsidering my feelings for Ben, as well. The constant questioning was taking a toll on my mental health. It was tearing me apart, and although the questioning and the labels were supposed to help me make more sense of my feelings, they were only doing the opposite. This way of thinking had become toxic for me. I needed to stop.
I needed a healthier, more productive framework for thinking about my relationships, so I started to take a deeper dive, beyond the labels. I started thinking about why, rather than how I loved Raine and still love Ben and Brighid so much, specifically. What have they offered me that others never had? I started thinking about what I truly value in my relationships, and I came up with a list of five things: emotional intimacy; an ability and willingness to inspire, challenge, and criticize each other; intellectual conversation; physical affection; and shared interests and a willingness to try new interests.
With Raine, Ben, and Brighid, I’ve shared all five of these things, at least to some degree, and they’re probably the only three people outside my own family with whom I’ve done so. Finally, I had a way of explaining why I loved them all with such intensity, without slapping a label on that love or trying to pin it down. Like most complex concepts and feelings in my experience, love refuses to be pinned down.
It’s common to hear the phrase “love is love,” or to see it plastered across yard signs and pride flags, but what does that phrase actually mean? To me, it would seem to suggest that love simply doesn’t need any other label; that just being love is enough. Yet so few people seem to live by this mantra that it’s become just another shallow platitude.
Some of you may think you understand the distinctions between romantic, platonic, and familial love, but to truly put your understanding to the test, I challenge you to define those distinctions without analogy, without allusion to platitudes, and without resorting to circular reasoning. Maybe you’ll find that what you thought you knew falls apart when subjected to scrutiny.
Perhaps you can also think of moments in your life where trying to put your finger on love and force it into neat little boxes has caused you internal strife. If that’s the case; if, like me, you can’t seem to escape from the infinite complexities and nuances of love, know that you and I are not alone. Out there are countless others questioning their feelings, fearing judgment, and wrestling with labels that frequently don’t quite fit. I know a few of them.
If all that’s the case, I hope you’ll join me in rejecting social constructs and expectations, and eschew labels regarding love altogether. I envision a future where the beauty of love is celebrated, free from arbitrary distinctions, because, in its most authentic form, it doesn’t need them. So, let’s love without labels and cherish the richness that comes with complexity. Let’s start today.
