There was a time when chaos felt like love. When the shouts, slammed doors, and the tears that would not stop all seemed to mean something deeper. We thought the intensity proved it was real. We confused instability with connection. We saw pain as proof of something strong between us. Looking back, I see we never experienced genuine love. Instead, we fell into patterns that seemed like love. In reality, we were trying to comfort each other’s wounds.

We have conditioned ourselves to believe that love must be dramatic to be real. It has to take your breath away, make you cry, and make you fight for it. We call it chemistry, but sometimes, it is adrenaline. Some call it passion, but sometimes, it is unresolved trauma meeting its mirror.

Many of us grew up on love stories that glorified chaos.

The movies showed us lovers who could not stand each other yet could not stay apart. The songs made us believe that heartbreak was a necessary ingredient for depth. In our friendships, we started to link inconsistency with mystery. Those who genuinely cared had to leave us uncertain about their intentions.

Somewhere along the line, we began to romanticise confusion. We convinced ourselves that boring love was an issue. We thought calm meant the spark was missing. We believed certainty was dull. Sometimes, peace feels strange. This happens because some people grew up in noise.

Based on what I have seen and heard, I used to assume that passion had to be chaotic. That real love should hurt a little, test you, stretch you, and demand something from you that leaves you dizzy. Until I met people who were soft, present, and grounded. People whose love did not roar but rather, it whispered. And somehow, it was louder than the noises.

And it hit me that we were never really addicted to love, we were addicted to emotional highs. The thrill of being chosen after being ignored, the temporary relief after tension and the rush of being missed after a fight. This is not love, it is the body mistaking survival for affection.

The older I get, the more I understand that peace is not boring. Peace is maturity. It is two people choosing each other again and again without needing chaos to prove it is real. It is a relationship that does not make you question your worth every other week and pure friendship that feels like rest, not work.

I bet you agree with me that there is something beautiful about relationships that are steady. The kind of love that does not demand constant performance. In a world that values toxicity as depth and detachment as strength, choosing calm is a bold act of rebellion.

And yes, sometimes that home is quiet. Sometimes it is predictable and does not come with grand gestures or dramatic make-ups. But one thing is for sure. It is safe, it is healing, and it is the kind of love that helps you breathe easier, not one that leaves you gasping.

So here’s to unlearning the chaos we once called passion. Now, we are on to finding beauty in peace. We are letting love be gentle this time, not because it is weak, but because it is finally safe enough to be soft. Because maybe, just maybe, the calm we have been running from is the love we have been searching for all along.