The desire to make love and relationships permanent is one of the most damaging forces we exert on one another, creating a paradox where the act of trying to preserve what we love slowly hollows it out. What begins as an attempt to protect something precious—the connection we feel to another person—transforms into a cage that suffocates both partners and ultimately drains the very qualities that made the relationship alive in the first place.
When we fall in love with someone, we fall in love with a specific manifestation of them—a constellation of traits, mannerisms, ways of being that captivate us in a particular moment. The problem arises when we try to crystallize that moment and demand that the person remain frozen in it. We anchor them to a version of themselves that existed when we first fell in love, insisting, "Be exactly as you were when I chose you. Don't change. Don't grow. Stay here."
The reality, however, is that change is fundamental to being alive. People are not static objects; they are processes. By the time two people marry, both have already shifted. Neurologically, emotionally, spiritually—they are different from who they were during the initial infatuation. Yet the attempt to make love permanent demands the impossible: that another human being stop evolving to satisfy our desire for security.
This creates an insidious form of suffering. In trying to anchor someone to a past reality, we do not preserve love—we drain the very qualities that made them lovable. The traits we fell in love with—spontaneity, creativity, openness, vitality—require space to express themselves. When we demand permanence, we constrain those qualities until they wither. The person becomes a shadow of themselves, and we wonder why the magic has left the relationship.
This dynamic is rooted in a fundamental misperception: the belief that we are separate from nature and separate from the divine intelligence that flows through all things. When we treat another person as an object to be possessed and controlled—as something that must remain fixed for our peace of mind—we are treating them as if they are separate from the living, changing, divine process of existence itself.
This separation creates a vampiric relationship with everything around us. If nature is something external to be controlled rather than something we are woven into, we begin to extract from it endlessly: taking without reciprocity, using without reverence, draining without replenishing. The same impulse that tries to make a partner permanent—the need to extract and control—extends to the natural world, leading to the exhaustion of resources and the degradation of ecosystems.
In the Course of Miracles, there is a profound moment of realization: "Oh my god, I'm creating the hell that I'm living in by draining the divine nature of everything around me out of it." This recognition cuts to the heart of the matter. The suffering in relationships, the depletion in our bodies, the degradation of the Earth—all of these stem from the same error: treating the living world as something to be mastered and made permanent rather than something to be in relationship with.
The irony is that trying to make love permanent is the fastest way to destroy it. When we try to hold someone in place, we strip away their agency, their growth, their capacity to be surprised by themselves. We reduce them from a living being to a memory—a figure frozen in amber that we force them to inhabit. The relationship becomes a museum rather than a garden.
The person on the receiving end of this demand experiences it as a slow suffocation. They are loved conditionally—loved for who they were, not for who they are becoming. This creates a double bind: either they suppress their authentic unfolding to maintain the love, or they grow and risk losing the connection. Neither option honors what they actually are.
And the person doing the anchoring? They live in a state of constant vigilance, constantly monitoring the other for signs of change, constantly disappointed as those changes inevitably arrive. They have mistaken love for control and are shocked to find that control creates not peace but friction, not intimacy but distance.
The path forward requires a fundamental reorientation: moving from the desire to possess to the willingness to participate in something larger. Rather than asking, "How can I make this love permanent?", the question becomes, "How can I be in authentic relationship with this person as they actually are, in this moment, aware that both of us are constantly changing?"
This shift does not diminish love—it deepens it. Love that can hold change, that can celebrate growth even when it takes people in new directions, that respects the divine intelligence animating another person—this is love that has real resilience. It is love based not on the fantasy of permanence but on the deeper reality of interconnectedness and mutual respect for each person's unfolding.
