By Zi
I call myself a relationship nerd.
There are 179 photos in an album on my phone titled (intimate relationships). Screenshots from Instagram posts, diagrams from pop psychology articles, notes from books, tools from relationship experts. I have spent years learning how to love better.
Non-violent communication. Relationship anarchy. Poly structures. Attachment styles. Boundaries and negotiations. Needs and requests. Consent. Repair. Green and red flags.
I felt steady in my learnings—through fuckups and repairs, heartbreaks and hopes. I thought I was building something sustainable: a polycule, a chosen family, a way of relating rooted in care.
Until one day, someone I loved (still love) told me my communication was “not with care,” “too business-like.”
In that moment, my body collapsed. My identity seemed to leave me entirely—curling inward, fetal. I remember screaming voicelessly inside: How can this be happening? I know how to do relationships. CRISIS CRISIS CRISIS! Not enough learning here to regulate my system…
Before that conversation, all I wanted was to hold her hands and hug her after months apart. WHY didn’t I start with that?
Instead, I slipped into defense—pointing out details, clarifying intentions—while every word I spoke came from hurt, from a quiet internal cry of STOP. That conversation became our ending.
It felt unfinished. In five years of practicing relationship anarchy, this was one ending I couldn’t make sense of. I hadn’t spoken my gratitude, or named the moments I cherished, or asked whether something else—slower, softer, less defined—could exist beyond dating.
Questions followed me for weeks. Was this grief speaking, or love refusing to disappear? Was I afraid of letting go, or genuinely wanting to transform care into something that didn’t constrain either of us?
I gave myself time.
My queer platonic partner listened—then listened again—offering hugs, reflections, and gentle I-told-you-sos. Another partner cooked my favorite meal the day after the breakup and let me cry until my body emptied. I wrapped myself in blankets, filled notebooks with half-formed sentences, and learned how to sit with vulnerability instead of fixing it.
Eventually, I chose to reach out again.
Friends warned me I might get hurt. They were right to worry. But I knew I wanted to speak—honestly—from where I was.
If my heart cracked again, at least I would know I hadn’t abandoned myself.
We met. Nothing dramatic happened. We exchanged small life updates. I named how that last conversation had landed for me. I heard how our intentions had misaligned. She was answering questions left hanging from before our last meeting, unaware that they had once felt like another blow. We laughed at some jokes. We ate dinner.
I left without clarity about what, if anything, would follow. But I felt relief. Our last interaction no longer felt like an emotional identity crisis.
I call myself a relationship nerd for this moment.
Not because I said the right things.
Not because the connection was repaired or redefined.
But because I chose not to disappear from myself.
Love is messy. No amount of learning, theory, or relational language has ever truly shielded me from pain. I knew how to name needs and boundaries—and still my body folded when care felt questioned. Still, my heart cracked when something ended without softness.
I reached out to stay aligned with who I am. I am someone who loves with curiosity and tenderness—and who now knows that love does not have to shrink to survive endings. Love can change shape. Love can be held without possession.
Love is messy.
And for now, choosing love—even without resolution—is the most honest practice I have.
Zi is a Chinese migrant, queer relationship nerd, social worker, and community organizer based in Naarm/Melbourne, Australia. She hopes we all act on love.