42 - How We Love

For some people, hearing the words “I love you” makes their heart leap out of their chest. Others immediately tighten their shoelaces so they can sprint in the opposite direction.

Which one are you?

I definitely belong to the second group: When I sense someone getting too close, I’d rather disappear before their love starts nibbling away at my freedom.

That’s precisely what happened to the mister back in the day—after our first date, dropped off the radar for two weeks. Had my better half not sent a rescue team—equal parts harsh words and gentle force—after me, I could’ve held my breath much longer. I needed time. Time to be ready to give up the life I had and build a new one with him. Which was ridiculous, of course—because deep down, I already knew how endlessly in love I was with this charming Frenchman.

I don’t fall in love often, but when I do, I know instantly. That’s how it was with the mister—and with the few great loves before him. I feel a connection right away.

Love simply happens to me.

With my husband, it’s the opposite: Love doesn’t “happen” to him—he decides to love.

He chose me consciously. Not hormone-driven, not with the melodramatic thought “She’s the love of my life,” but with sober clarity: he wanted to spend his life with me. As romantic as that is, it also sounds a little like he built an Excel sheet with pro-and-con columns.

But I won't complain—the formula clearly worked.

The fascinating thing about our open marriage is that you suddenly get close to other people and their personal philosophies of love.

Giovanni genuinely wonders whether he has ever loved—something that moved and shocked me deeply. How can someone live two-thirds of their life without ever truly loving?

Chloé reserves love strictly for her husband. Since the two of them have outsourced sexuality, love forms the essential, load-bearing foundation of their partnership. Her affection for other partners shows up as care—food, attention, and elaborately choreographed mating rituals.

I’ve known I was polyamorous for at least two decades. For a long time, I simply had no word for it—I just assumed I was refusing to grow up. And when I finally learned the term, these feelings only applied to people I was already in a relationship with—even though those relationships failed despite deep emotions.

With Leif, everything was suddenly different.

From the very first kiss, I felt a connection that went far deeper than anything below the belt.

You know—at least all the way down to the toes. It was a feeling so overwhelming, I didn’t dare put it into words. I didn’t have to. Because during our very first date, Leif held my face gently between his strong hands, looked me in the eyes, and said, “I love you.”

Under normal circumstances, I would’ve dived to the bottom of the ocean and barricaded myself inside an abandoned submarine. But for the first time in my life, those words didn’t scare me.

Because he “just” loved me. He didn’t want to take my freedom. Didn’t want to put me into a mold. Didn’t want to lock me in a cage or rearrange my life. He simply wanted to be part of it—and walk alongside me. That was so new, so liberating, that I didn’t have to run. I could actually let it happen—without secretly searching for an emergency exit.

Completely untypical for me.

And this new love makes my love for my husband grow beyond measure. I’m profoundly grateful to him that, next to my love for him, another love is allowed to exist. Just like that—without taking anything away from us.

It simply joins in— like an exquisite wine at dinner: It doesn’t ruin anything, just makes everything richer, fuller, and deepens the flavor of love.