Storm-Tested Love

Storm-Tested Love (Why Safety Beats Sparks)

I used to mistake sparks for signs.

If something felt intense right away—fast, electric, a little reckless—I assumed it meant something important was happening. Younger-me chased chemistry like it was a prophecy. If the room went quiet when we locked eyes, I leaned in. If my phone buzzed and my stomach flipped, I called it destiny.

Older-me checks the emotional weather report.

Not because I’ve grown boring.
Because I’ve stood in enough relationship storms to know the difference between excitement and exposure.

Storms have a way of revealing things. Who stays. Who steadies. Who disappears the moment the wind shifts. And who only loved the calm version of you.

I didn’t learn that all at once. I learned it slowly. With receipts, for flowers, candy, dinners, jewelry and…therapy.

Somewhere along the way

I realized that what I actually crave now isn’t fireworks—it’s safety. Emotional safety. The quiet kind that doesn’t announce itself. The kind that doesn’t spike your heart rate but lowers it.

Psychologically, it makes sense. When we feel emotionally safe, our nervous systems calm down. Anxiety eases. Conflict doesn’t escalate as quickly. We don’t brace for impact every time something feels off. According to relationship research, emotional security is one of the strongest predictors of long-term relationship stability.

In plain language: when you’re not constantly defending yourself, you can finally breathe.

The problem is… safety doesn’t always feel romantic at first.

It feels boring. Predictable. Like nothing’s happening.

Until you realize nothing exploding is kind of the point.

Safety feels dull when you’re used to chaos. But once you’ve lived in storms long enough, safety starts to feel like oxygen. You don’t notice it right away—until it’s gone.

This is where the cynic in me steps in.

Not the bitter kind. The scar-tissue kind.

Cynicism gets a bad reputation, but most of it isn’t cruelty—it’s memory. It’s the part of us that learned patterns the hard way. That remembers how quickly “passion” turned into unpredictability. How intensity sometimes masked inconsistency. How chemistry didn’t stop anyone from leaving when things got uncomfortable. Soulmates and true love often drifts away in the wind like wisps of smoke from a dying campfire.

Cynics don’t hate love.
Our hearts just can’t trust the weather; we seek the calm after the storm. It is a pretty safe place to be.

 We’ve learned storms hurt. And we’d rather not pretend otherwise.

I love romantic comedies.

They  make you laugh. They make you take notes on what not to do in a budding relationship, while knowing full well that you  will make the similar blunders. If they make you cry, even 'tears of joy', I do not classify them as a rom-com. Just a drama with some humorous diversions. Most of all, they usually leave you feeling upbeat, and hopeful. Until the sequel you star in comes out, and it doesn't match the energy or fun of the original rom-com.

Jerry Seinfeld once joked that relationships aren’t romantic comedies—they’re endurance sports. And honestly? That feels about right. Sparks are great for opening scenes. Endurance is what gets you through the middle.

Anyone can show up when things are fun. The real test is who stays when life gets inconvenient. When moods shift. When fears surface. When the story stops being cute.

That’s not glamorous.
But it’s real.

And real lasts longer than sparks ever did for me.

Here’s the part I didn’t expect.

Choosing safety didn’t kill romance. It didn’t flatten desire or drain color from the relationship. It gave it room to breathe. Without constant anxiety, affection became steadier. Intimacy felt less like a performance and more like a place to rest.

That surprised me.

Because part of me still equates excitement with meaning. I still worry that if something feels calm, maybe it isn’t enough. That old reflex hasn’t vanished. It just doesn’t run the show anymore.

Not completely, anyway.

What I Learned ( or at least trying to).

I don’t think the lesson is “choose safety over sparks.” That’s too clean. Too final.

I think the lesson—if there is one—is that sparks without safety burn out. Even someone as skeptical and smart-ass as me knows that safety alone, without curiosity, can eventually lose its spark. Finding the right balance is essential—and while I may not have it all figured out yet, I’m still holding onto hope for love and romance, even if I tend to meet it with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

 But I do know this: I’d rather build something storm-tested than storm-chasing.

And maybe… just maybe… that doesn’t mean I’ve given up on romance.

It just means I’m learning to recognize the kind that stays when the weather turns.

My story’s not finished yet. I remain my cynical of 'true love' self, yet I am still hopeful. I hope that you remain hopeful and find a relationship that offers the calm after the storms. Valentine's Day is only one day, but the message we send to each other on that day, should underscore our relationship for 365 days. Storms move on. True love…it stays.

Next in the Valentines Series: The Quiet Choice (Why Staying Is Underrated)