Transactional Love

Reflections on Love and Connection

I dreamt about my first love last night.

More often than I would like to admit, they find their way into my dreams, as if subconsciously wrapped tightly in the arms of a memory.

It’s not that I miss them exactly, but maybe it’s that I miss being loved innocently.

First love, first kiss, first touch.
Childlike wonder and an aching feeling that we’re invincible.

They didn’t love me because I knew how to be one of the boys, because I was a shiny accessory, or would leave them alone for days when brooding because, god, they just need some space.

They loved my flaws, loud mouth, and unpolished humor. They loved me with an eating disorder, an angry home, and without a license.

That’s not to say we didn’t have our fair share of the dramatics. Mistakes and words we thought would be the nail in the coffin. Slammed doors, bickering, and drunken spats on the side of the street.

But they loved me for the person I was. Not for what I could do for them. There were no conditions, no unspoken agreements. I wasn’t a placeholder, or a bandaid, a quick fix, or a fun night.

We were kids together.

Loving. Stupid. Kind. Daring. Dramatic. Hopeful.

But over the years, love turned into something else. I started to notice the subtle (or not-so-subtle) exchanges. The give-and-take in every glance and gesture. It wasn’t just about authentic affection anymore—it became about what people carried with them, the emotional weight they didn’t dare put down, and the inability to connect on a deeper level.

It’s true what they say, that everyone clings to their baggage once they get older. It took me years to shed the anger that weighed me down. I’d like to think my baggage is folded nicely - airtight, and wrapped in a bow. I know this isn’t entirely true, but I’m willing to make room.

However, It seems the lovers I encounter have theirs bursting at the seams, scattered, hoping I won’t notice the glimmering mementos left behind that they can’t seem to stow away.

Some don’t even try to hide their yearning for a familiar face, while others can’t accept that their mother’s influence runs as deep as their ego. Some struggle with their disrupted routines and others harbor deep-seated misogyny.

Occasionally, someone might seem like the perfect partner on paper, but my heart and mind aren’t always on the same page.

I’ve noticed that the men like to tell me how I make them feel.

I make them feel wanted, heard, and safe. I make them excited, hot, and eager. They believe these feelings must mean they like me, but that’s not the case.

They don’t know how I like my coffee, the name of my oldest friend, or how I felt when my dad died. They don’t know the songs I listen to on repeat, how I love a quiet breeze, or my favorite season.

They don’t know
because they never asked.

They don’t like the complex human standing in front of them, they like the fleeting moments and the reminder that they, in fact, can feel something.
The ability to get a taste, but leave before they need to clear the table.

I read a quote recently, “People are looking for what they can get instead of what they can give. It’s all ego and no soul. Relationships have become all about transactions and little to do with connections.”

This put most of my romantic experiences in perfectly phrased quotations.

And not always to their own fault, I recognize the difficulty of navigating modern relationships in the world we’ve inherited. We’ve become cold, divided, and jaded. Yet, in our attempts to protect ourselves from pain, we end up shielding ourselves from the vulnerability and connection we desire.

It’s difficult, at times, to hold onto the hope that someone will bear the love I have to give. But I love myself enough to not wait around. And even if that kind of love doesn’t find me, I see it in the faces of my friends and family.

In a world driven by transactions, I can only hope that the simple act of loving someone unconditionally hasn’t been reduced to fiction you only find in a romance novel.

Love is scary, messy, unpredictable, disruptive, and hard work.
But it’s also warm, joyful, passionate, content, and meaningful.

My first experience with love wasn’t perfect, but it was innocent, it was real.

The only transaction was love itself,
and maybe that’s what I’m dreaming of.