Photo Credit: Pinterest
By: Sierra M
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about love. Not in some grand, existential sense. More like: how did we get here?
Valentine’s day has officially passed, and every year it feels like most people subconsciously agree to perform something. There’s almost this unspoken script that most abide by: purchase a box of chocolates, get a pre-made flower bouquet, book a reservation for anytime after 6pm at a nice restaurant. The whole range of things. And I don’t even hate it, honestly. I just can’t fully comprehend how love has become something that needs to be scheduled and purchased in advance.
A few weeks ago, I came across an article about this wine bar in Manhattan that will be hosting an “AI pop-up dating event” on Valentine’s day. At first, I genuinely thought it was satire. To my disappointment, it was not.
Rather than feeling instantly judgmental, I found myself feeling deeply saddened and unsettled by the reality of it. It made me think about how far we’ve drifted from what love truly is if we’re now trying to replicate and simulate the feeling with a series of code. Because love, at its core, is supposed to be unpredictable, messy, and human.
Somewhere along the way, many have come to conflate love with presentation. We treat it like a scheduled event, something that needs various props and a set budget curated in advance. But the most intimate and romantic things I can think of have absolutely nothing to do with price tags. They are verbal, personal, and specific to the person standing in front of you.
I was raised between the Assyrian Church of the East and Catholicism. Love, in these spaces, is deeply sacred. I grew up seeing it expressed in rather quiet ways–in meals prepared without request, in blessings whispered before someone walked out the door. It’s not flashy, nor performative–it’s sacred in the sense that it requires both intention and presence. It is not something you can prove with grandiose gestures; rather, it is something that you live quietly, each and every day.
What surprises me most about love now isn’t even the significant emphasis on consumerism. It’s the sadness that surrounds Valentine’s Day for many. Each year, I hear people talk about the day with resentment or jealousy, like love is something that only counts or is special if it’s romantic and publicly validated. As if partnership is the only legitimate form of it.
But love has never been that narrow.
Love is the friend who curates a Spotify playlist for you at 2 am because the songs and lyrics reminded them of you. It’s the home-cooked meal you make of someone’s favorite dishes and cuisine. It’s a handwritten note left tucked away somewhere they’ll find later. A memory box with keepsakes. A Pinterest board filled with images that remind you of them. A customized perfume with scents that remind you of places you’ve been together. A scrapbook of photos you took when they weren’t looking. It’s attention–real, specific, and intentional attention.
And yes, I do believe that going out to a nice dinner can be beautiful. Purchased gifts can carry great significance and meaning. I’m not anti-flowers or against celebrating occasions. I just think that meaning has to come before the object. Otherwise, it just feels like choreography.
Maybe love isn’t supposed to look or feel impressive. Maybe it’s supposed to feel deeply intentional. Maybe it’s a lot quieter than we’ve allowed it to be–less about what you can show off to others, and more about what you notice, remember, and choose to do when no one’s watching.
There is no one right way to love. But I do think there is a difference between expressing love and merely performing it. And lately, I’m not sure we remember that difference. Maybe remembering what love is requires us to slow down long enough to practice it.
ܚܘܒܐ ܢܗܘܐ ܥܡܟܘܢ ܝܘܡܢܐ ܘܒܟܠ ܝܘܡ
Sierra is a senior in the College studying International Relations, Communications, and Consumer Psychology. She is staff writer for the Pennsylvania Post. Her email is smarelia@sas.upenn.edu
