No one tells you how hard it is to stop chasing chaos…

Because, we’ve romanticize the whirlwind—the butterflies, the late-night texts, the makeups and breakdowns and the thrill of not knowing what's coming next. For many of us, especially those who have spent years surviving emotional roller coasters (raising my hand very high in the air) love was never slow or steady. It was intensity. It was noise. It was chaos, It was learning how to read silence like it was a warning sign. It was being addicted to the high—and bracing for the inevitable crash.

So what happens when you finally get the thing you always said you wanted? What happens when you’re with someone who shows up, listens, stays? Someone who texts back, plans ahead, and doesn’t make your nervous system feel like it’s in a war zone? At first, it feels like peace. Then—quietly, and very confusingly—it starts to feel like boredom.

Then comes the guilt. Because how dare you feel bored when what you’ve found is good? When it’s healthy. When it’s what you begged the universe for… But here's the truth no one talks about enough: when all you’ve ever known is inconsistency, calm can feel like a letdown. Safety, when you’re used to survival mode, doesn’t always feel safe at first. Sometimes it feels empty. Like something’s missing. Like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop—not because there’s danger, but because your nervous system doesn't recognize stillness as love.

The chaos used to keep you engaged. You confused anxiety for passion. Distance for desire. Unavailability for mystery. You believed the more you hurt, the more real it must be. You learned to equate longing with love. And now that the longing is gone? It’s disorienting. You start to question the connection. You tell yourself maybe there’s no spark. Maybe you’re not that into them. Maybe it’s too easy.

But here’s what I’ve learned: easy doesn’t mean boring. Calm doesn’t mean bland. Safety doesn’t mean something’s missing. It means your brain and body are healing. It means your heart finally stopped having to beg for attention. It means you're not confusing love with adrenaline spikes anymore. Because, there’s a difference between lack of chemistry and lack of chaos. And, when you're reprogramming your understanding of love, it takes time to tell the difference. Real love can feel awkward. Steady. Gentle in ways you’re not used to. It won’t hit you like a freight train. It will unfold. Grow slowly. Show itself in tiny ways—remembered coffee orders, forehead kisses, someone reaching for your hand just because they want to.

And no, it won’t always be exciting. But it will be real. You won’t lose sleep wondering if they care. You’ll lose track of time because you’re finally at ease. Learning to love the calm is a process. You have to sit with the discomfort of not being constantly stimulated. You have to remind yourself that peace is not punishment. It’s permission. It’s presence. It’s the thing you were aching for when you were in the middle of all that chaos.

So if you’re sitting across from someone who is kind, consistent, calm—and you’re wondering why your stomach isn’t in knots, maybe ask yourself: Is this boredom? Or is this the absence of fear? Because sometimes the most radical thing you can do is let love feel easy. Let it be quiet. Let it be calm. And then choose it again tomorrow. And the day after that. Not because you need the chaos… but because you finally learned you don’t. Until next time x