Longing grows not from the depth of connection but from the inconsistency of presence. When someone drifts in and out of our lives, their absence becomes louder than their presence, and the heart begins to ache in the spaces between. That ache feels powerful, almost sacred, and we convince ourselves it must mean the bond is profound. Yet longing is not proof of intimacy—it is proof of scarcity. It is the body’s way of saying: I am not being met consistently, and so I hunger.
Connection, when deep, does not require longing to prove its worth. It is steady, abundant, and reliable. It reassures rather than destabilizes. Presence, when consistent, allows desire to rest, to expand, to flourish without fear. But when presence is inconsistent, longing takes root, and we mistake the ache for love. We begin to equate the hunger with intimacy, believing that the pain itself is evidence of depth.
Longing grows when presence is inconsistent, not when connection is deep.
The paradox is cruel: the more inconsistent someone is, the more our longing intensifies. Each rare moment of closeness feels monumental, each brief appearance magnified into meaning. We cling to these fragments, weaving them into stories of connection, even as the reality is one of deprivation. Longing thrives in scarcity, while love thrives in abundance.
Inconsistent presence creates a cycle of anticipation and relief. We wait, we ache, we hope, and when attention finally arrives, it feels like salvation. That salvation binds us, convincing us that the person who withholds is the one we cannot live without. But this is not love—it is captivity. Love does not require us to ache for scraps; it offers abundance freely, without games, without withholding.
The nervous system knows the difference between safety and danger. In love, the body relaxes; it breathes deeply, it rests. In longing born of inconsistency, the body tightens, bracing for impact, waiting for rejection, fearing loss. This is not romance—it is hypervigilance. To honor ourselves, we must learn to listen to the body’s signals and trust that longing is not a sign of passion but of misalignment.
Longing often disguises itself as destiny. We tell ourselves that the ache must mean something profound, that the hunger is proof of depth. But destiny does not demand that we suffer. Love does not require us to live in fear. The body’s longing is not a sign of fate—it is a sign of deprivation, urging us to step back and reconsider.
The danger lies in mistaking longing for intimacy. We believe that the ache itself is proof of connection, when in reality it is proof of absence. We are not bonded to the person, but to the feeling of being noticed, to the rare moments when we are seen. Love, in contrast, is not about being noticed—it is about being known, fully and consistently, without the need for scarcity to make it valuable.
Longing grows in the shadows of neglect. It is the child waiting for a parent’s glance, the lover waiting for a partner’s call, the friend waiting for acknowledgment. In each case, the rarity of presence magnifies its impact, creating bonds that feel unbreakable. But these bonds are forged in deprivation, not in love. Love does not grow in shadows—it grows in light, in presence, in abundance.
The illusion of love created by longing is powerful. It convinces us that we are cherished, even when we are neglected. It binds us to those who destabilize us, making us believe that their inconsistency is proof of their value. But love does not destabilize—it steadies. Love does not confuse—it clarifies. Longing is not proof of love; it is proof of absence.
To break free from longing, we must learn to recognize the difference between scarcity and abundance. We must learn to see that inconsistent presence is not proof of love, but proof of withholding. We must learn to value the steady presence of love, even when it feels ordinary, even when it lacks the thrill of scarcity. Love’s abundance is the true treasure, though it may not sparkle like longing’s ache.
Healing requires listening to the body. When longing grows in the absence of presence, the body is telling us that something is unsafe. To honor ourselves, we must trust that signal, even when the mind insists on romanticizing the ache. Love should feel like rest, not like vigilance. Love should feel like home, not like a battlefield.
Longing is often a mirror, reflecting back our own wounds, fears, and unmet needs. It shows us where we have mistaken hunger for love, where we have confused scarcity with value. By listening to the body’s warning, we can begin to heal, to break patterns, to seek connections that nourish rather than drain.
Love, when real, is abundant. It does not require us to ache for scraps. It does not demand that we live in fear. It offers safety, clarity, and peace. Longing, in contrast, is the body’s alarm, reminding us that something is wrong. To honor love, we must resist the lure of longing, the illusion of depth created by absence, and instead embrace the quiet, steady truth of being cherished.
Ultimately, longing grows when presence is inconsistent, not when connection is deep. Love’s reality is not rare, chaotic, or destabilizing—it is abundant, steady, and unremarkable in its constancy. To honor ourselves, we must learn to distinguish between the hunger of longing and the nourishment of love, choosing peace over chaos, safety over scarcity, and truth over illusion.