A reflection on how modern life has reshaped our ability to give and receive love without terms.
I once overheard a child ask her mother, “If I get very naughty, will you still love me?”. The mother paused, smiled with tired eyes, and said, “Of course I will. But I may not like you in that moment.”
It made me wonder—how many of our ‘of course I love yous’ come with hidden footnotes?
In our modern world, love often arrives dressed in the finery of warmth and affirmation. But look closer—beneath its surface lies a growing list of disclaimers. “I’ll love you if you respond in time. If you don’t make me feel unseen. If you grow the way I imagine. If you don’t trigger my insecurities. If you stay available. If it’s not inconvenient.”
What happened to the love that once held space for imperfections, contradictions, delays, and detours? The love that stood not as a transaction, but as a quiet vow?
We live in a culture that trains us—sometimes subtly, sometimes overtly—to curate our emotions, our time, even our affections. We offer love in measured units, often based on how the other person makes us feel. Even our apologies come dressed in performance. “I’m sorry if you felt that way,” we say, placing the onus of pain on the other.
In this digitally hyper-connected world, love has taken on a new tempo—fast, efficient, low-effort. A thumbs-up can replace presence. A heart emoji can replace vulnerability. A delay in reply can feel like rejection. Affection has become programmable. Relationships are being shaped by notifications, algorithms, and the dopamine economy.
We are slowly growing comfortable with a kind of convenience love—tender only when it suits us, expressive only when it doesn’t cost us comfort, present only when it doesn’t interfere with our carefully rationed attention and other commitments.
But here’s the quiet grief of it all—love offered conditionally may still look like love, but it cannot nourish. It cannot heal. It cannot hold us when life brings its rain.
True love—whether romantic, parental, platonic, or spiritual—is less a feeling and more a posture. It says: I am here, even when it’s not easy to be. I choose to see your humanity, even when your actions bruise mine. I love, not because you are perfect, but because you are real.
And yes, this kind of love will disappoint you. It will not always be reciprocated. You may even be hurt. But that is the cost of choosing to love freely, not safely.
So, can unconditional love still exist in the digital age?
Maybe the better question is—can we, in this age of curated intimacy and guarded hearts, choose to become unconditional again?
Can we learn to:
- Stay when it’s inconvenient to us?
- Listen without waiting to reply?
- Love without the ledger?
- Allow others to be flawed—and still be held close?
We are each other’s mirror and medicine.
When love becomes less about utility and more about presence, it begins to move differently—slower, deeper, truer.
I leave you today with a quiet invitation.
The next time you feel love rising in your heart, ask yourself: Is this love available only when it’s easy? Or does it have the courage to walk into complexity and still stay?
Because somewhere, a child within each of us is still asking:
If I’m not perfect, will you still love me?
Letters for the Inner Journey by Pushkar
Whisper back, if the letter spoke to you.