When Love Feels Like Anxiety

Caleb loved Iris so much he couldn't sleep.

Not in the romantic, staying-up-talking-all-night way. In the lying-awake-at-3-a.m.-heart-racing-mind-spiraling way. In the checking-his-phone-every-five-minutes-when-she-didn't-text-back way. In the can't-eat-can't-focus-can't-function-unless-he-knew-she-still-loved-him way.

People said he was in love. And maybe he was. But it didn't feel like the love depicted in movies or described in songs. It felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, constantly terrified of falling. It felt like his entire nervous system was wired to one person, and if she withdrew even slightly, his whole world collapsed.

It felt, more than anything, like anxiety.

They'd been dating for eight months, and Caleb had never felt this way about anyone. He thought about Iris constantly. Needed to know where she was, who she was with, whether she was thinking about him. When they were together, he felt euphoric. When they were apart, he felt like he was suffocating.

"You're so intense," Iris said one evening after he'd texted her fourteen times because she hadn't responded for two hours. "I was just at dinner with my sister. I'm allowed to not text you for a few hours."

"I know. I'm sorry. I just... I worry when I don't hear from you."

"Worry about what?"

Caleb couldn't articulate it. That he worried she'd realize he wasn't enough. That she'd meet someone better. That she'd wake up one day and wonder why she was with him. That every moment she wasn't actively choosing him felt like she might be about to leave.

"I don't know," he said instead. "I just love you a lot."

But it didn't feel like love. It felt like drowning while pretending to swim.

When Attachment Feels Like Emergency

Here's what Caleb didn't understand: what he was experiencing wasn't just love. It was anxious attachment masquerading as romantic intensity.

Dr. Amir Levine, who has extensively studied attachment patterns in relationships, explains that people with anxious attachment experience love as a constant state of emergency. Their nervous system interprets their partner's availability as a matter of survival, and any sign of distance triggers panic.

Caleb's brain was treating Iris's text responses like oxygen. When she was attentive, responsive, close, his nervous system calmed. When she was busy, distant, or simply living her own life, his amygdala—his threat detection system—went into overdrive.

This wasn't conscious. Caleb couldn't logic his way out of it. His rational brain knew Iris was at dinner with her sister, that two hours without texting was normal, that she loved him. But his limbic system—the ancient, emotional part of his brain—was screaming: Danger. Abandonment. Do something now.

Research by Dr. Phillip Shaver shows that anxious attachment develops when early caregivers are inconsistent. Sometimes available, sometimes not. Sometimes warm, sometimes cold. The child's nervous system learns: Love is unpredictable. I must stay vigilant. I must work constantly to maintain connection or I'll be abandoned.

Caleb's mother had been like this. Warm and attentive when she was in a good mood, but depressed and withdrawn for weeks when she wasn't. Young Caleb never knew which mother he'd get. He learned to be hypervigilant to her emotional state, constantly monitoring for signs she was pulling away.

That childhood vigilance had followed him into adulthood. Now, instead of monitoring his mother's moods, he monitored Iris's text response times, her tone, her facial expressions, any microscopic shift that might signal withdrawal.

He thought this was love. This desperate, consuming need to maintain connection. This constant anxiety about losing her. This feeling that his entire wellbeing depended on her emotional availability.

But it wasn't love. It was his traumatized attachment system treating every relationship like a life-or-death situation.

The Reassurance That Never Lasted

Iris tried to be understanding. When Caleb spiraled, she'd reassure him: "I love you. I'm not going anywhere. You don't need to worry."

And for a few hours, Caleb would feel better. The anxiety would quiet. He'd feel secure, loved, safe.

Then Iris would go to work, or out with friends, or simply be unavailable for a normal amount of time, and the anxiety would return. Stronger than before. The reassurance she'd given him would evaporate like it had never happened.

"You told me yesterday you loved me," Caleb would say, hating how needy he sounded. "Do you still?"

"Of course I still do. I told you yesterday. Nothing's changed."

"Then why didn't you text me back for three hours?"

"Because I was working, Caleb. I can't text you every hour. That's not realistic."

"So you don't think about me when we're apart?"

"That's not what I said. I think about you. But I also have a life. And you constantly needing reassurance is exhausting."

And Caleb would feel shame crash over him. He knew he was being too much. Knew his constant need for validation was pushing her away. But he couldn't stop. The anxiety was bigger than his rational understanding.

Dr. Sue Johnson's research on attachment reveals why reassurance doesn't work for anxiously attached people: their nervous system doesn't encode reassurance the way secure people do. A secure person hears "I love you" and internalizes it, carries it with them. An anxiously attached person hears "I love you" and gets temporary relief, but can't hold onto it once their partner is out of sight.

It's called "object permanence" in attachment terms—the ability to hold onto the felt sense of your partner's love when they're not physically present. Caleb couldn't do this. The moment Iris was gone, it was like her love disappeared too. He'd need fresh evidence, constant updates, continuous proof that she still cared.

And that was impossible to sustain. No amount of reassurance could fill the void because the void wasn't about her. It was about his own internalized belief: I am not enough. Love is conditional and temporary. I must work constantly to earn it or it will disappear.

The Fight That Revealed the Pattern

Six months in, Iris went out with her friends for a girls' night. She told Caleb beforehand. Said she'd probably be out until midnight, that she'd text him when she got home.

Caleb said, "Have fun!" and meant it. But by 9 p.m., he was checking his phone compulsively. By 10 p.m., he was imagining scenarios—what if she met someone else? What if she was having more fun without him than with him? What if she realized she didn't miss him?

At 11:30 p.m., he texted: "Hey, hope you're having fun. Miss you."

No response.

11:45 p.m.: "Just checking you're okay."

No response.

12:15 a.m.: "Iris, you said you'd be home by midnight. I'm worried. Can you please just let me know you're safe?"

At 12:47 a.m., Iris finally responded: "I'm fine. We're still out. I'll text you when I get home."

Caleb felt a surge of relief immediately followed by hurt. She was fine. She just hadn't bothered to text him because she was having fun. Without him. Not thinking about him.

He texted back: "You said midnight. It's almost 1 a.m."

"Plans changed. I'm allowed to stay out later than I thought."

"So you're prioritizing your friends over me?"

"Are you seriously doing this right now?"

The fight escalated. By the time Iris got home at 1:30 a.m., they were arguing via text about trust, priorities, whether Caleb's anxiety was reasonable or controlling.

"You can't demand I check in with you every hour," Iris said when she finally called him. "That's not a relationship. That's surveillance."

"I'm not trying to control you. I just needed to know you were okay."

"No, you needed to know I was still thinking about you. There's a difference. And I can't live my life constantly proving to you that I love you. It's exhausting, Caleb."

After they hung up, Caleb sat in his apartment feeling like he was going to be sick. She was right. He knew she was right. But he didn't know how to stop.

Dr. Stan Tatkin's research on insecure attachment patterns reveals that anxiously attached people often create the very abandonment they fear. Their constant need for reassurance pushes partners away. Their anxiety makes partners feel suffocated. Their vigilance feels like control. And eventually, partners leave—not because the anxious person wasn't enough, but because the relationship became exhausting.

Caleb was creating a self-fulfilling prophecy. His fear of losing Iris was making him behave in ways that would eventually make Iris leave.

The Therapist Who Named It

After their fight, Caleb finally saw a therapist. He'd been avoiding it, telling himself he just loved deeply, that his anxiety was normal relationship stuff, that he just needed Iris to be more understanding.

But he couldn't deny anymore: this didn't feel like love. It felt like torture.

"Tell me what happens when Iris doesn't text back," his therapist, Dr. Martinez, asked.

"I panic. My chest gets tight. I can't focus on anything else. I check my phone constantly. I imagine worst-case scenarios. I feel like I'm going to die if I don't hear from her."

"And when she does text back?"

"Immediate relief. Like I can breathe again. But only for a little while. Then the cycle starts over."

Dr. Martinez nodded. "What you're describing is anxious attachment. Your nervous system has learned to interpret your partner's availability as a threat or safety signal. When she's available, you feel safe. When she's not, your brain interprets it as abandonment, which triggers a survival response."

"So I'm broken?"

"Not broken. Your nervous system adapted to inconsistent caregiving in childhood by becoming hypervigilant. It's trying to protect you from abandonment by making you constantly monitor for signs of it. But that hypervigilance is making relationships feel like constant anxiety."

"How do I stop?"

"You learn to self-soothe. To hold onto the felt sense of being loved even when your partner isn't physically present. To develop what's called 'secure base' internally instead of relying entirely on external validation."

It sounded impossible. Caleb's entire relationship with love had been external—constantly seeking evidence from others that he was worthy, lovable, enough. The idea of finding that security inside himself felt like being asked to breathe underwater.

But he was desperate. Because loving Iris shouldn't feel like drowning. And if he didn't change, he would lose her. Not because she didn't love him, but because loving him had become exhausting.

Learning to Soothe His Own Panic

Dr. Martinez gave Caleb homework: "When you feel the urge to text Iris for reassurance, I want you to pause. Sit with the anxiety for five minutes. Notice what it feels like in your body. And then, if you still need to reach out, you can."

The first time Caleb tried it, he lasted thirty seconds before texting her.

The second time, he made it two minutes.

The third time, five minutes. And something shifted. By the time five minutes passed, the panic had peaked and started to subside on its own. He still wanted to text her, but the desperate urgency was gone.

He was learning something crucial: his anxiety wasn't actually about Iris being unavailable. It was about his own nervous system's inability to regulate without external soothing.

Dr. Martinez explained: "Children learn to self-soothe from caregivers who soothe them consistently. When caregivers are inconsistent, children don't develop that internal capacity. They rely on external sources—partners, friends, validation—to regulate their nervous system. You're essentially asking Iris to do what your mother should have taught you to do: hold yourself emotionally."

Caleb started practicing self-soothing techniques. When anxiety spiked, instead of immediately reaching for his phone, he'd place his hand on his chest, breathe deeply, and literally tell himself: "I'm safe. Iris loves me. Her being busy doesn't mean she's leaving. I can survive two hours without contact."

At first, it felt ridiculous. Like trying to convince himself of something he didn't believe.

But slowly—painfully slowly—his nervous system started to learn. The anxiety still came, but it didn't completely overwhelm him anymore. He could sit with discomfort without immediately needing external reassurance.

Research by Dr. Daniel Siegel on attachment healing shows that the brain can develop new neural pathways through consistent practice. Caleb's brain had been wired to treat separation as danger. He was rewiring it to recognize: Separation is temporary. Connection exists even when we're apart. I'm okay.

The Conversation That Changed Everything

Three months into therapy, Iris told Caleb they needed to talk. The words every anxiously attached person dreads.

Caleb's heart started racing immediately. This is it. She's leaving. I knew I'd lose her.

But he used his skills. Breathed deeply. Reminded himself: I don't know what she's going to say. My anxiety is not a prediction.

"I can't do this anymore," Iris said, and Caleb felt his world collapsing. But she continued: "I can't keep being your only source of emotional regulation. I love you, but I'm exhausted. Every time I live my life normally—go to work, see friends, take time for myself—you spiral. And I end up having to manage your anxiety instead of just... being your girlfriend."

"I know. I'm working on it. I'm in therapy, I'm trying—"

"I know you are. And I see the effort. But I need to know: are you working on it for yourself, or are you working on it so I won't leave?"

The question hit Caleb like a punch. Because honestly? He'd started therapy to save the relationship. To stop pushing Iris away. To make himself less anxious so she'd stay.

"Both?" he said quietly. "I'm doing it for both reasons."

"I need you to do it for yourself. Because even if we don't work out, you deserve to experience love without constant anxiety. You deserve to feel secure. And that has to come from you, not from me constantly proving my love."

Caleb felt tears coming. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"No. But I'm asking you to do the real work. Not just the work to keep me, but the work to heal. Because loving you shouldn't feel this hard. And being loved by you shouldn't feel like I'm responsible for your entire emotional state."

The Healing That Came From Letting Go

Caleb realized something profound after that conversation: his anxiety wasn't about Iris. It was about him. About childhood wounds that had never healed. About a nervous system that had learned love was inconsistent and had to be constantly earned.

He started EMDR therapy to process childhood memories of his mother's inconsistent availability. Started practicing meditation to develop internal calm rather than seeking it externally. Started building a life that didn't revolve entirely around Iris—reconnecting with friends, pursuing hobbies, developing identity beyond the relationship.

And something miraculous happened: as he became less desperate for Iris's reassurance, he actually felt more secure in their relationship.

When she went out with friends, he could genuinely say "Have fun!" and mean it, without spiraling into anxiety about whether she was thinking about him.

When she didn't text back immediately, he could think, "She's probably busy," without catastrophizing that she was losing interest.

When they had time apart, instead of feeling abandoned, he could miss her without falling apart.

Dr. Lisa Firestone's research on relationship anxiety reveals this paradox: the more you can tolerate separateness, the more secure the relationship becomes. Anxiously attached people believe they need constant closeness to maintain connection. But that neediness actually creates distance. True intimacy requires the ability to be separate without falling apart.

Caleb was learning to be separate. And in learning that, he was becoming someone Iris could actually be with long-term—not because he'd suppressed his needs, but because he'd learned to meet some of them himself.

When Love Stops Feeling Like Anxiety

A year into their relationship—and six months into serious therapeutic work—Caleb woke up one morning and realized something had shifted.

Iris was at a work conference in another city. Would be gone for three days. And Caleb... was okay.

He missed her. Looked forward to her coming home. But he wasn't panicking. Wasn't checking his phone compulsively. Wasn't spiraling into anxiety about whether she still loved him.

He could hold the felt sense of her love even when she wasn't physically present. Could trust their connection even during separation. Could exist separately without feeling abandoned.

When she came home, Iris noticed immediately. "You seem different. Calmer."

"I am. I realized something while you were gone: I finally believe you're not leaving. Not just intellectually, but like... in my body. In my nervous system. You being away doesn't feel like abandonment anymore."

Iris's eyes filled with tears. "That's all I've wanted. For you to feel secure with me."

"I think I finally do."

They still had hard moments. Caleb's anxious attachment didn't disappear completely. Sometimes, under stress, the old patterns would resurface—the need for excessive reassurance, the catastrophizing, the panic about losing her.

But now he recognized it for what it was: old programming, not present reality. He could feel the anxiety without being controlled by it. Could ask for reassurance occasionally without needing it constantly.

Love didn't feel like drowning anymore. It felt like... love. Complicated sometimes, challenging often, but fundamentally safe. He could be loved without constant proof. Could love without constant panic.

Dr. David Schnarch's research on differentiation reveals that secure love requires the ability to maintain a solid sense of self even in intimate connection. Caleb had learned this. He could be connected to Iris while still being connected to himself.

The Truth About Anxious Love

Caleb understands now what took him years to learn: when love feels like anxiety, it's not actually about love. It's about trauma masquerading as intimacy. It's a nervous system treating relationships like survival situations.

Some people mistake this for "passionate love"—the intensity, the obsession, the all-consuming nature of anxious attachment. But it's not passion. It's panic.

Real love feels secure. It allows for separateness without fear of abandonment. It trusts connection even during distance. It doesn't require constant proof.

Caleb looks at Iris now and feels something he couldn't access before: genuine love, untangled from anxiety. He loves her not because he needs her to regulate his nervous system, but because he genuinely enjoys who she is. Because he chooses her, not because he's desperately afraid of losing her.

And Iris can finally relax. Can live her life without constantly managing his anxiety. Can be herself without worrying every action will trigger his panic.

They're building something neither of them had before: secure attachment. Where love feels like safety, not emergency. Where connection exists even in separateness. Where being together is a choice, not a desperate attempt to avoid the pain of being apart.

When love feels like anxiety, it's your nervous system telling you: This isn't love yet. This is unhealed attachment trauma. And the only way to heal it is to stop seeking security in another person and learn to find it within yourself.

Caleb finally learned that lesson. And in learning it, he became capable of the love he'd been desperately seeking all along.

Love doesn't have to feel like drowning. Sometimes, after enough healing, it can finally feel like coming home.

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