Devotion Is Not a Dirty Word

I’ve only ever brushed the edges of this kind of love. Just the faintest touch of it, like fingertips grazing flame. I’ve felt it rise like a tide in the way someone’s eyes lingered a beat too long, as if they were trying to memorize me before I disappeared. I’ve felt it in conversations that didn’t just pass the time but seemed to ignite something in the air itself, every word humming with possibility. And yet, almost always, that fire dimmed.

Again and again, men have grown afraid of their own intensity... afraid of mine. They shrink back from the heat, retreating into detachment, pulling on the mask of nonchalance as if indifference were safer than reverence. As if loving openly might unmake them. What could have been devotion gets diluted into casualness, like watering down wine until it tastes of nothing.

And still, I crave it.

I crave a love that doesn’t flinch from its own hunger. A love that is unapologetically old-school, fierce and alive. The kind of love where someone is unafraid to adore you, to be captivated by you, to want you with presence rather than passivity. The kind of love that doesn’t fear effort... that still writes poetry, that looks across a crowded room and makes you feel like the only person on earth.

Think Morticia and Gomez Addams... playful, passionate, relentless in their devotion, but never confined by it. Think of the lovers in old novels who burned for each other not only in grand gestures but in the smallest details: the way they noticed a sigh, a glance, a turn of the hand. Think of the great cinematic romances like The Notebook, where love was messy, inconvenient, raw, but utterly alive. These stories endure not because they are fantasies, but because they remind us of what it feels like to be cherished without hesitation.

And yet in our culture, these kinds of examples are often dismissed. Too dramatic. Too intense. Too much. We’ve been conditioned to believe that longing is dangerous, that devotion is unhealthy, that wanting to be adored must be the same thing as being codependent.

But what if they aren’t toxic at all? What if they are simply passionate love... fierce, reverent, unapologetic... stripped of the binding cords of control and possession? What if this kind of love isn’t a threat to our freedom, but a balm for our nervous systems… a reclamation of what it really means to be chosen?

Why Wanting This Isn’t Wrong

For a long time, I thought craving this kind of intensity meant something was broken in me. That the desire to be cherished so deeply, so fully, so visibly was a flaw. We live in a culture that praises casual detachment, where playing it cool is treated as emotional maturity, and anything too passionate, too devoted, too expressive gets dismissed as clingy or unstable.

But the truth is that wanting old-school romance doesn’t mean you’re codependent. It means you’re brave enough to admit you want to be seen.

When someone longs for real presence, it isn’t weakness. It is the nervous system reaching for safety and stability. For those who have known abandonment or inconsistency, that hunger for devotion is the body’s way of asking for something different this time, something corrective. It isn’t pathology. It is survival.

And devotion is what makes that healing possible. Trust doesn’t grow out of grand declarations, it grows out of repetition. It also withers in silence, in distance, in the habit of holding back instead of leaning in. It cannot take root in avoidance, in half-answers, or in the performance of detachment... when presence is withheld, when communication is sparse, when care is hidden behind coolness. Trust fails when people mistake aloofness for strength, or when vulnerability is met with withdrawal. The nervous system learns safety not from promises, but from patterns. When someone remembers the small things, when they follow through on what they say, when they bring joy and effort for no other reason than to show care, the body begins to register: I am safe here. This is what psychologists call earned security, the way those of us with old attachment wounds can, through consistent presence, rewire our expectations of love.

A poem is not just words on a page, it is evidence of time and energy devoted to one person alone. Flowers delivered for no reason are not decoration, they are proof that you exist in someone’s mind even when you’re not in the room. Waiting on a porch just to catch a glimpse is not wasted time, it is devotion ritualized in patience. An “I’m thinking of you” text isn’t obsession or clingy-ness, it’s devotion in miniature... proof that care doesn’t need grandeur to be felt, that the smallest gesture can carry the weight of remembrance. These things build trust because they create consistency, and consistency is the foundation that teaches the body how to soften and receive.

But trust also depends on reciprocity. Devotion cannot live in a vacuum. When one person gives endlessly and the other only receives, the balance tips toward imbalance and ache. True devotion is mirrored devotion... the steady exchange of presence, care, and reverence that assures both nervous systems: we are safe here. Reciprocity doesn’t have to look identical, but it does have to be felt. A gaze returned, a word spoken back, an effort matched. Without it, gestures fall flat. With it, they become a rhythm, a pulse of give and receive that builds trust brick by brick until the foundation is unshakable

History shows us this clearly. Men went to war carrying photographs and pressed handkerchiefs, writing letters that stretched across months and years, sometimes to women they had only just met before leaving. Those letters became lifelines, not because they were dramatic but because they proved that longing itself could be sustaining. And when they came home, many of those men married those women, because the relationship had been tested through distance, anchored in ritual, and fueled by devotion.

Romance was once considered worthy of effort. Letters that took weeks to arrive. Flowers carried across miles. Vows written by hand, carefully chosen words meant to last. That wasn’t dysfunction. That was devotion. And devotion heals because devotion builds trust.

The real problem isn’t longing. The real problem is that too many people today are afraid of their own intensity, so they turn toward indifference instead. They ghost instead of commit. They downplay their desire to protect themselves. They numb what could have become reverence, because reverence asks them to risk. And yet reverence is exactly what heals us.

Wanting to be remembered, adored, and chosen is not a flaw. It is the most human thing about us. And when that longing is met with consistency, it becomes the very thing that builds trust, repairs old wounds, and opens the possibility of a love that is both passionate and safe.

Devotion vs. Co-Dependence

This is where people get it twisted. We’ve been conditioned to believe that deep longing, passion, and intensity are the same as co-dependence. But in reality, they couldn’t be more different.

Co-dependence says: I cannot exist without you. I will abandon myself to keep you close. Devotion says: I am whole, and because I am whole, I can choose to pour my fire into you without losing myself.

Part of the confusion comes from how our culture has pathologized intimacy. Attachment theory teaches us that co-dependence often grows out of insecure bonds... especially when a child learns early on that love is inconsistent or conditional. The nervous system becomes hypervigilant: scanning, clinging, doing anything to prevent abandonment. Later in life, this can look like control, people-pleasing, blurred boundaries, and the inability to self-regulate without another person. That is co-dependence.

But longing itself... the desire to be chosen, adored, and remembered — is not co-dependence. In fact, research shows that humans are biologically wired for closeness. Neuroscience has found that secure, steady relationships lower cortisol (stress), increase oxytocin (bonding and trust), and activate dopamine pathways (pleasure and reward). Devotion, when rooted in respect, actually heals the nervous system. It strengthens identity rather than dissolving it. In practice these differ because Co- dependence breeds control. It fears abandonment so much that it tries to tether the beloved with chains... guilt, manipulation, ownership. Love becomes a survival strategy, not a sanctuary. Devotion doesn't deep control. It is rooted in respect. It’s passion sharpened by trust, obsession tempered by reverence. It is intensity that howls, yes, but never swallows. It is the gaze that consumes without caging.

We’ve been circling these truths in stories for centuries. Wuthering Heights warns us about obsession without boundaries. Heathcliff and Catherine’s passion destroys them because it is rooted in possession, not reverence. Morticia and Gomez Addams show us what devotion can look like... endlessly enamored, playful, reverent, dramatic in passion, yet always grounded in respect and autonomy. In Casablanca, Rick’s love for Ilsa is fierce but not controlling; his devotion transforms into sacrifice for her freedom. Pride and Prejudice, Darcy’s devotion melts his pride and Elizabeth’s guardedness. Their love doesn’t erase them... it expands them. These archetypes endure because they capture the crucial truth: intensity alone doesn’t make love toxic. It’s the absence of respect, boundaries, and mutuality that does.

Relational psychology backs this up: Secure attachment is characterized by both high intimacy and high autonomy... people feel deeply connected without losing themselves. Couples with secure bonds show higher relationship satisfaction and greater independence. Their passion doesn’t collapse into fear because it is balanced by trust. By contrast, anxious-preoccupied attachment (the root of co-dependence) is marked by hypervigilance, self-abandonment, and dependency on external validation. Love here becomes unstable because it is tied to survival, not choice.

This means longing and intensity, when held in respect... are not signs of pathology. They are signs of aliveness. They are the nervous system reaching toward safety, ritual, and reverence.

Why Old-School Love Heals Attachment Wounds

There’s a reason my body longs for devotion that feels a little old-fashioned. To some, old-school romance looks excessive... flowers, love letters, poems, waiting for hours, days, weeks, just to see someone’s face. To me, it feels like medicine. Not because I’m chasing fantasy or drama, but because my nervous system understands it as safety.

Attachment wounds don’t live in our minds... they live in our bodies. If you were raised in environments where love was inconsistent, where attention was unpredictable, where affection was tangled with absence, your system learned to brace. The body learns: don’t relax too much, because the rug can be pulled out at any moment. Intimacy becomes a cycle of reaching and retreating, craving closeness but fearing it will vanish.

This is why devotion matters. Not half-love. Not cool detachment. Not the kind of modern “we’ll see where this goes” energy that leaves you spinning in uncertainty. The nervous system doesn’t calm with ambiguity. It calms with ritual. And that’s what old-school love is at its core: ritualized devotion.

Again, think of the soldier who sent a letter every week, year after year. Think of the lover who left roses at the door even when they couldn’t stay to see them received. Think of the mix-tape handed off in the 90s, or the voicemail recorded just so you could replay the sound of their voice. These aren’t random acts. They’re patterns. Repetition. They teach the body: you are remembered, you are wanted, you are worth someone’s time.

For a nervous system that has lived through abandonment, those gestures are corrective emotional experiences. They interrupt the old script. Suddenly, instead of disappearing when things get hard, someone shows up again. Instead of silence, you get words. Instead of retreat, you get presence. And little by little, the parts of you that expect rejection begin to soften. The body starts to unclench. The heart starts to trust that desire doesn’t have to mean danger.

This is the difference between casual love and healing love. Casual love... the kind that prides itself on being “low-maintenance” or detached... doesn’t soothe the wound. It reopens it. When someone acts indifferent, it feels like reliving the original absence. It confirms the old belief: you are too much, and you will be left.

Old-school love does the opposite. It leans in rather than pulling away. It makes space rather than making excuses. It says: I see your hunger for closeness, and I am not afraid of it. I can meet you here without losing myself. That kind of devotion doesn’t create co-dependence... it creates security. It allows intensity to exist without turning into control.

And it matters that this devotion is mutual. Look again at Morticia and Gomez Addams... an exaggerated example, yes, but one that rings true at the core. Their love isn’t one person chasing while the other retreats. It’s both of them obsessed, playful, reverent. That kind of shared passion is what turns obsession into reverence instead of possession.

When you’ve spent a lifetime in push-pull dynamics, tasting devotion that is consistent, reverent, and unapologetic feels like stepping into sunlight after years underground. The nervous system exhales. The heart learns a new rhythm. And for the first time, longing doesn’t feel like a liability... it feels like belonging.

So when I say old-school love is medicine, I mean it literally. Not a luxury, not an indulgence, but a kind of emotional nourishment that repairs what was fractured. It heals attachment wounds not by silencing desire, but by meeting it with reverence and steadiness.

And that’s why I won’t apologize for wanting it. Because craving this love isn’t a weakness ... it’s the body’s way of asking for what it always deserved.

A Universal Call to Reclaim Devotion

We live in a culture that pathologizes longing. We are taught, again and again, that wanting to be adored, cherished, or pursued deeply is a red flag. That intensity is dangerous. That passion is inherently unstable. That devotion must mean you’re insecure, needy, co-dependent, or broken.

And so we shrink ourselves. We tame our hunger. We convince ourselves that love should be casual, detached, and low-maintenance, as if indifference were somehow the same as maturity. We are told that “playing it cool” is desirable, that withholding is attractive, that needing less makes you stronger. But let’s be honest: what this culture calls strength is often just fear in disguise.

Because detachment doesn’t make us stronger. It makes us lonelier.

We have been taught to settle for half-love... for “hanging out” that replaces courtship, for almost-relationships where no one is willing to risk showing how much they actually care. We are told that the very things that nourish our nervous systems... consistency, ritual, reverence... are liabilities. That craving devotion means we must be insecure. But the truth is exactly the opposite.

Wanting to be loved openly, fully, and reverently isn’t a symptom of brokenness. It’s a sign of wholeness. It’s a sign that your body remembers what it was always meant for: to be chosen with presence, to be wanted without hesitation.

Think of the stories that stay with us across generations. Morticia and Gomez Addams... playful, dramatic, endlessly enamored, still referenced decades later because they show us what it looks like when passion doesn’t fade. The Notebook still makes people sob, not because it’s unrealistic, but because it touches a place in us that longs to be fought for, remembered, and cherished even as time passes. Pride and Prejudice still thrills because we want to be chosen fully... not halfway, not as an option, but as the one. These stories endure not because they’re toxic fantasies, but because they reflect a truth we keep trying to suppress: human beings are built for devotion.

Our nervous systems don’t regulate through indifference. They don’t heal through casualness. They heal through presence. Through reverence. Through devotion that says: I see you. I choose you. And I am not afraid of the depth of my desire for you. This is not co-dependence. This is not possession. Co-dependence says: I cannot exist without you. Possession says: You are mine to control. But devotion? Devotion says: I am whole, and because I am whole, I can love you fiercely without trying to bind you.

Devotion is not a liability. Devotion is consecration... a fire that warms instead of burns, an obsession that sanctifies rather than swallows. It is passion rooted in respect, hunger tempered by trust, reverence that frees instead of confines. And it is time we stop apologizing for wanting it.

Because when we claim this kind of love... when we allow ourselves to both give and receive it... we break cycles of fear. We step out of half-hearted relationships where indifference is treated as normal. We rewire not just our own attachment patterns, but what love will look like for future generations. We give ourselves permission to remember what has always been true: love was never meant to be muted.

So yes, I want devotion. I want the letters, the poems, the roses, the gaze across the room that doesn’t waver. I want a love that howls, that burns, that reveres. Not because I am broken, but because I am whole enough to hold it. And if you feel this too... if you’ve been shamed for wanting more, if you’ve been told your hunger is “too much”... let this be your permission: you are not too much. Your longing is not wrong. Your craving for devotion is not weakness, it is wisdom.

The world doesn’t need more half-loves. It needs more yearners. More people who are brave enough to worship each other with reverence and respect. More people willing to risk intensity, to risk presence, to risk devotion. The world needs people who will choose love without chains... passion without fear, fire without apology.