8 painful truths about always being the one who loves more in every relationship

I realized I was always the one who loved more during a dinner party last year. My friend was describing her boyfriend’s elaborate proposal plans, and I felt that familiar ache—not jealousy, but recognition. In every relationship I’d had, I was the one making elaborate plans while waiting for crumbs of reciprocation.

If you’re reading this, you know the exhausting mental math of emotional investment. Who texts first, who says “I love you” more freely, who remembers the anniversaries. You’re not keeping score to win—you’re keeping score because the imbalance hurts too much to ignore. After years of therapy and meditation retreats, after countless conversations with others who love like this, I’ve learned some difficult truths about having a heart that runs too hot.

1. You’re addicted to potential, not reality

We don’t fall for people—we fall for who they could become. That emotionally distant partner isn’t a red flag; they’re a renovation project. We see their wounds and imagine ourselves as the healing they’ve been waiting for.

Attachment researchers call this “anxious attachment,” but it really feels like exhausting optimism. We’re so skilled at seeing someone’s best possible self that we ignore whether they want to become that person. The story in our heads is always better than the person sharing our bed.

2. Your intensity reads as desperation, even when it’s not

That excitement you feel on a second date? The way you already know you could love them? It radiates from you like heat, even when you try to play it cool. People sense when you’re ready to merge lives while they’re still googling your last name.

I’ve learned to sit on my hands—literally and figuratively. To not send the perfect poem that reminded me of them. To wait three days before suggesting plans. This performed casualness feels like betrayal of my authentic self, but it’s really translation—converting my emotional intensity into something digestible.

3. You mistake anxiety for butterflies

That sick feeling when they don’t text back? You’ve labeled it excitement. The constant uncertainty about where you stand? You call it passion. But studies have shown we often confuse stress responses with romantic attraction.

Healthy love feels calm, which is why we don’t trust it. We’re so accustomed to the adrenaline of uncertain love that consistency feels flat. A partner who reliably shows up doesn’t provide that familiar high of finally getting attention from someone who’s been withholding.

4. You become a rehabilitation center, not a partner

When you love intensely, you attract people who need healing, not partnership. They’re drawn to your warmth like moths to flame—not because they love you, but because they love how you make them feel about themselves.

I spent three years being someone’s emotional support system before recognizing the pattern. They needed validation, unconditional acceptance, constant reassurance. I needed to be needed. We both called it love, but it was really codependence in a prettier dress. They loved my function, not my fullness.

5. Your empathy becomes weaponized against you

You understand why they forgot your birthday—they’re bad with dates. You forgive the canceled plans—work is stressful. Your ability to see their perspective means you never advocate for your own needs.

This supposed superpower becomes a liability. We literally feel others’ emotions so strongly that we prioritize their comfort over our own survival. Your empathy becomes their excuse factory.

6. You’ve mastered the art of wanting less

You learn to dim your enthusiasm like it’s a skill to put on your resume. To need less. To be the “cool girl” when you’re anything but cool about love. You practice being low-maintenance while internally maintaining everything.

Each relationship teaches you to shrink. Stop asking for good morning texts. Stop suggesting weekend trips. Stop saying “I love you” first. You match their lower energy, which means constantly operating at half-power. It’s exhausting, speaking in whispers when your natural voice is a symphony.

7. The imbalance becomes your brand

After enough lopsided relationships, it becomes your identity. “I just love hard,” you tell friends, like it’s a quirky personality trait instead of a painful pattern. You start choosing people who confirm this story, unconsciously seeking those who’ll let you overgive.

Here’s what therapy taught me: sometimes we choose to love more because it feels safer than being loved equally. When you’re the one doing all the emotional labor, you’re in control. You can’t be abandoned by someone who was never really there.

8. Equal love feels like a trap when you find it

When someone finally matches your energy, every alarm bell rings. Their consistency feels calculated. Their availability seems desperate. Their reciprocated enthusiasm must be manipulation.

We’re so programmed for the chase that standing still feels like death. We mistake peace for emptiness, presence for neediness.

Final thoughts

I’ve been rereading Rudá Iandê’s Laughing in the Face of Chaos, where he writes that “we are not monolithic entities, but multifaceted beings.” Maybe the part that loves too much is just one facet, not my whole identity. This shifted something fundamental in how I see myself.

The solution isn’t to love less—it’s to choose people who receive your intensity as the gift it is. Equal partnership will feel foreign at first, like writing with your non-dominant hand. But that discomfort is just your nervous system adjusting to safety.

Your capacity for deep love isn’t the problem. The problem is giving that rare gift to people who treat it as ordinary. The right person won’t make you feel like too much. They’ll wonder how they got lucky enough to be loved by someone who knows how.