On Love, Rigidity and the Illusion of Virtue

With February, the month of love approaching, I found myself revisiting and reflecting on what we so easily call the absolute “relationship killer”, the lack of communication. 

All I hear is people saying that relationships fail because of a lack of communication. It has become the perfect exit excuse. When there is no obvious transgression, no betrayal no scandal, “lack of communication” becomes the default explanation. Not enough talking is the obvious culprit. How often do we hear. We split because we stopped communicating and started leading separate lives.

Most relationships don’t fail because people can’t communicate.

They fail because people cannot tolerate difference.

What we call “a lack of communication” is often not a technical failure of language, but an emotional one. People stop talking, not because they have nothing to say, but because they no longer feel allowed to be who they are without being corrected, judged or managed. Silence is rarely the cause of rupture. It is the consequence.

What I have witnessed, again and again, is not a lack of words, but a lack of permission.

Permission for the other to exist as they are.

Permission to evolve differently.

Permission to live a life that does not mirror our own.

We are taught that love requires alignment: same values, same habits, same rhythm, same idea of what a “good” life looks like. This belief is often presented as wisdom. In reality, it is frequently fear disguised as virtue.

This is not an argument against discipline or structure, but against their use as moral weapons in a relationship.

We say values, but we mean control.

We say discipline, but we practice rigidity.

We say concern, but we exercise judgment.

There are countless relationships built on this confusion. One partner prides themselves on discipline, early mornings, clean living, impeccable order. The other is deemed problematic for sleeping longer, living messier, drinking one glass too many. The verdict is always the same: you should be more like me or more like what society deems acceptable and in order.

But discipline without empathy is not strength.

It is a failure of imagination.

Love is not the demand that two lives operate on the same system. It is the maturity to accept that they never will.

 I watched “Materialists”recently, a film that stayed with me. It depicts dating as a science, where compatibility is calculated with amost mathematical precision, and where the “perfect match” is defined by shared values, tastes, rythms and lifestyles. 

Watching it made something click. The idea that partners must have everything in common, upbringing, beliefs, values, tempo, taste is presented as modern and efficient, even reassuring.

It is not romantic. It is authoritarian.

What we often call “shared values” are projections. We fall in love with a potential, then punish the other for remaining real. This is how rigidity masquerades as morality.

A partner who polices your habits, judges your pace, or monitors your coping mechanisms is not helping you become your best self. They are trying to regulate their own discomfort by controlling your existence.

A truly mature partner does something else entirely.

They witness.

They acknowledge that the person beside them is on a distinct trajectory—shaped by a different history, a different nervous system, a different set of wounds and desires. They do not rush this evolution. They do not shame it. They do not interrogate it.

Love is not a performance review.

To love well is to be present without judgment. To reflect without distortion. To support without hierarchy. Not to drag the other toward your idea of progress, but to stand beside them as they discover their own tools.

We do not all need the same instruments to evolve. One person may need a hammer. Another needs tweezers. One grows through structure. Another through chaos. Equality does not mean sameness.

A good partner understands this.

They do not lead your life for you. They do not confuse guidance with superiority. They act as a mirror, not a mold. A lens, not a leash.

When you are lost in the woods, they don’t scold you for not seeing the path. They show you the trees. And the forest.

They offer perspective.

Love, in its most evolved form, is the art of allowing.

Allowing difference without threat.

Allowing evolution without fear.

Allowing the other to exist without correction.

Love is not rigidity.

It is presence.

And presence, unlike control, actually transforms.

This is where the question returns to us.

When love becomes rigid, it often disguises itself as virtue. As discipline. As moral clarity. As knowing better. Yet beneath this posture, there is frequently something far less elevated: fear. Fear of difference. Fear of uncertainty. Fear of losing control over the outcome.

So the invitation is simple, and demanding.

When we find ourselves managing, correcting, or judging the person we claim to love, it is worth pausing to ask:

Is this care or is it my own rigidity, presented as virtue?

Because intolerance rarely announces itself honestly. It hides behind good intentions. Behind “values.” Behind the quiet belief that we are more mature, more evolved, more reasonable than the other. But this stance says less about love than it does about our discomfort with what resists our control.

This is not an invitation to abandon boundaries. Love does not require self-erasure, nor the acceptance of what harms us. Boundaries protect integrity. But they are limits we hold for ourselves not tools to reshape the other.

The work, then, is inward.

To examine our rigid expectations.

Our intolerance for difference.

Our impulse to manage evolution instead of trusting it.

Because love does not grow through control.

It grows through allowance.

When rigidity disguises itself as virtue, love contracts and what passes for care is often only fear in disguise.