The Right to Be Loved

Where is the love we were promised? The one told in fairy tales, described as a magical power capable of transforming everything? Where is that endless joy that parents wave before their children’s eyes, or that story that should give meaning to our existence, like in the movies? The truth is, it doesn’t exist. It never has.

There’s a harsh reality that everyone must face sooner or later: there is no right to be loved as an adult. Children, yes, they have the right to be loved. Parents are obliged to love them; it’s a kind of implicit contract at birth. But for adults, there’s nothing written. No one is obliged to love another adult. Yet we live under this collective illusion that at some point, love is owed to us, that there exists some form of “right to be loved” that we will be granted.

Being loved is not a right but a stroke of luck. And when it happens, it’s not because we deserve it or because it’s owed to us, but simply because it happened. And if it does, we must be smart enough to recognize it and hold on tight because there’s no guarantee in this reality.

We’re swept away by the belief that at some point, love will arrive, as if it were a reward for surviving, for believing.

We like to think that love is spontaneous and selfless, but how many relationships are based on a tacit exchange of benefits? Attention, security, stability, social status. It’s not a matter of cynicism… it’s reality. Love is often treated like a transaction: I give you this, but only if you give me that. And if one of the two stops “giving,” love falters, and the myth of “forever” crumbles.

Sometimes, love is merely narcissism in disguise. Many people seek love not to connect with the other person, but to feel complete, validated... not by their partner, but by their own ideal projection of themselves. We want someone who makes us feel special, desirable, necessary. And if that person stops feeding our ego, we’re ready to discard them, searching for a new mirror.

The "true love" that’s supposed to save us is a construct sold to us by movies, books, and even companies that know well how to exploit our hunger for emotions. They tell us that without that love, we are incomplete. But maybe we’re just consumers of a product that doesn’t really exist. A bit like the happiness they promise in advertisements: always within reach, but never truly attainable. A marketing deception.

In the end, the pursuit of love might just be a way to escape the fear of being alone, of having to face our existence without an emotional anchor. We seek someone to fill that void, unaware that the void exists independently of the other. Love is not a cure; at best, it’s a temporary palliative. The profound loneliness we carry cannot be eradicated by anyone.

There’s this deeply ingrained belief that love automatically brings happiness, but how many people do we know who are in love yet still unhappy, frustrated, or even destroyed? Love can become a cage, a poison that, if poorly handled, leads us to sacrifice our identity, our freedom. Maybe the real problem isn’t finding love, but understanding whether we’re truly ready to accept it for what it is: imperfect, unpredictable, and far from the idealizations we grew up with. Love isn’t here to save us or to give us what we think we’re missing. In the end, it’s merely a mirror of our limits and vulnerabilities. And the real challenge is not desperately seeking it, but having the courage to live without it, accepting that love, like happiness, is not a guaranteed destination, but a luxury that, if it comes, should be seen for what it is: a rare gift, not a right.

But then, why is it that no one teaches us that falling in love and love are two completely different stages? Psychologically, falling in love is that initial rush that triggers a storm of hormones and emotions, complete with idealization (seeing the other person as perfect, magical, the center of your universe). But that phase, as thrilling and intense as it may be, is bound to end. And when it does, many people think that love is over. But that's exactly when it begins.

Love is what comes after infatuation, when the hormones settle down, and you have to face the reality of an imperfect person standing before you.

Psychologists like Erich Fromm already understood this: "the confusion arises from the initial experience of 'falling in love,' which is mistakenly confused with the permanent state of 'being in love.'”

So, you can love someone without being in love with them anymore, and vice versa, you can fall in love with someone without actually being capable of loving them.

As Immanuel Casto said: "often, films and fairy tales tell stories of grand infatuations that end before love even begins."

We fall in love all the time, but we rarely ever truly love. Society sells us infatuation as if it were the permanent phase of love. We are told that if you no longer feel that initial passion, then the relationship is over, or it’s wrong. But the raw and honest truth is that falling in love is just the prelude. Love, on the other hand, requires sacrifice, effort, and a heavy dose of realism. And that’s why so few people reach it: it’s too uncomfortable, too far from the romantic narrative we’ve been sold since we were children.

We’re in the midst of a global affection crisis. Love, like a currency in constant circulation, has lost its intrinsic value. In an era of infinite choices, where you can have everything immediately, human beings act with greed, grabbing everything they can without stopping to reflect on the real value of what’s in their hands. The result? Emotional inflation, where love becomes something we consume rather than feel.

We live in a time where real well-being is taken for granted, so what’s left to do but speculate on everything that still seems precious? We speculate on freedom, on love, even on happiness and sadness because everything must become a commodity, an object of desire. Instead of recognizing the true value of things, we use them to fuel a never-ending dissatisfaction.

Humans, incapable of satiating their desires, keep pushing further, often without realizing it. They want everything, they want more, because the constant desire to experience something different has become the norm. Stability, balance, they’re too boring for our emotional system, now unaccustomed to consistency. So, what do we do? We welcome serenity only with the knowledge that, sooner or later, something new and different will come along to disrupt it.

We like variables, we like the unexpected because in an era of material security, it’s the surprise that keeps us alive. We no longer know what it means to nurture a deep and lasting feeling; what intrigues us is the thrill of change, the adrenaline that only uncertainty can provide. The hard, cold truth is that we’re no longer capable of maintaining a stable bond, because our emotional system has become addicted to the unexpected, to that excitement that reminds us we’re still capable of feeling something intense, even if only for a fleeting moment.

And so, instead of cultivating depth, we prefer to collect fragments, jumping from one variable to another because true consistency, the kind that lasts, terrifies us.

I know this view is pessimistic, and of course, there are other sides to consider, which I’ve explored in the past (in books and articles). But in the middle of this deep night, this is how I feel.