Why we’re desparate to separate “love” from “limerence”
If you’ve spent any time in the corner of the internet dedicated to limerence—Reddit threads, Facebook groups, or YouTube comment sections—you’ll notice a strong, almost aggressive consensus: Limerence is NOT love.
We are told it is a "disorder," a "symptom," or a "chemical glitch." We’re told that to even suggest it overlaps with love is to fundamentally misunderstand what you’re going through.
But why are we so desperate to keep these two experiences in separate boxes? Why does the idea of limerence being a form of love feel so offensive to those experiencing it?
I’ve noticed that this drive to separate the two often comes from a place of self-protection rather than clinical accuracy. Here are the three main reasons why we want to believe limerence isn’t love—and why that distinction might be doing us more harm than good.
1. Myth: love shouldn’t hurt. Limerence hurts, so it can’t be love
The first reason is simple: Limerence is excruciating. It’s a rollercoaster of intrusive thoughts, emotional dependency, and physical aching. Because we’ve been sold an idealised, "film-like" version of love that is supposed to be peaceful and soul-soothing, we assume that anything this painful must be a disease.
But the truth is that love involves loss. When you fall in love, you lose a degree of your independence. You shed parts of your old identity. You become terrifyingly accountable to another person. Love has plenty of "negative" experiences attached to it; they just tend to be overshadowed by the positive. By labelling limerence as "not love," we protect the "sanctity" of love, but we also distance ourselves from a very real, albeit intense, human experience.
2. Needing an “extraordinary” word
For many, the word "crush" or "infatuation" feels insulting. When your mood is completely dictated by the tone of a text message, "crush" feels far too ordinary for the level of devastation you feel.
We reach for the term limerence because it feels extraordinary. It gives a distinctive character to our suffering. If it’s "love," it’s common—everyone’s been there. But if it’s "limerence," it’s a specific, unique signature of emotional highs and lows that requires its own category. We want our pain to be taken seriously, and we fear that using "ordinary" words will lead people to say, "Oh, you'll get over it, it's just heartbreak."
3. Pathologising for comfort
Perhaps the most interesting trend is the desire to see limerence as a medical defect. If limerence is a "symptom" or a "disease," then it’s not you. It’s something happening to you.
We feel more comfortable calling it a clinical error than a deeply human experience of longing. If we can separate it from love, we can avoid the terrifying question: “How could I love someone in such a chaotic, corrupt, and destructive way?” It’s easier to say "my brain is broken" than to admit that human love can be messy, obsessive, and disproportionate.
Bring it back to a human experience.
When Dorothy Tennov established the term in the late '70s, she didn't see it as a separate disease. She nested limerence within the experience of falling in love. It is a specific process of seeking reciprocation that can—and often does—evolve into a stable bond.
By forcing a hard line between the two, we run the risk of alienating ourselves from our own emotions. Limerence isn't a defect; it's a version of attraction that has become excessive or destructive due to a lack of reciprocation.
It is ordinary. It is painful. And yes, it is a part of the vast, confusing spectrum of love.
