Love

I believe that there is only room for one love in someone’s life. Not because you cannot feel something for two, but because true love is indivisible. To love two would mean to pick a side, and when tested in truth—in a life-or-death moment—you would choose one over the other. That choice reveals the reality: love is not about connection alone, it is about truth. Connection without exclusivity is loyalty, not love.

True love is singular. You can experience more than one love in your lifetime, but never at the same time. By its very nature, it demands exclusivity. The difference between the love you have for your children and the love you have for your partner shows this clearly. You can love your child deeply, but not in the same way you love your one true partner.

As it is written: “No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other.” — Matthew 6:24 (NIV). This is not because of religion—this is something I have believed all my life. The scripture only echoes the truth I already held.

Flaws are the truest test of love. Perfection is easy to admire; anyone can adore the best version of a person. But it takes something greater to stay when flaws are exposed. Infatuation hides from flaws—it thrives on fantasy, illusion, and projection. But when reality appears, infatuation fades. Love, however, does not collapse under imperfection. Love acknowledges flaws and still chooses. It does not deny them, it accepts them without condition.

This is why love cannot be divided. To claim love for more than one at the same time is to claim that you can fully embrace the flaws of two different people with equal devotion. That is impossible. Truth always reveals itself in choice. You may admire, you may desire, you may remain loyal, but true love is reserved for one.

Infatuation is an illusion. Obsession can coexist with love, but it risks twisting it into control. Love, by contrast, is truth. It is the act of choosing one person—flaws and all—and calling them your only. Neutrality in love is worse than death, because death ends, but neutrality denies meaning while life still continues.

Without bad, there is no good worth saving. Without flaws, there is no love worth proving. Flaws are not what make love fragile; they are what make it real. They are what make a person perfect.

Love, in its truest form, is singular and indivisible. The love one has for a partner is of a different order than the love one has for a child. To conflate the two is to mistake category for essence. Spousal love is exclusive, chosen, and bound by fidelity; parental love is natural, expected, but not the same in kind.

Thus, a deficiency in parental love does not negate or diminish the authenticity of conjugal love. To demand that one must love both with equal purity is to impose an impossible standard and misunderstand love’s nature. True love is not invalidated by imperfection elsewhere—it proves itself in exclusivity and devotion to the one chosen.

Philosophy reveals love’s truth; biology reveals its roots.

The bond with children is driven by evolutionary survival mechanisms—an instinct to protect offspring, to continue the line of life. The bond with a spouse, however, is rooted in the pair-bonding systems of the brain, where exclusivity and devotion are written into chemistry itself. Seeing a child activates the hypothalamus, amygdala, and periaqueductal gray—centers tied to protection, caregiving, and survival. Romantic love, in contrast, ignites the ventral tegmental area and caudate nucleus, deep in the dopamine reward system. The brain surges with dopamine and norepinephrine, flooding us with passion, focus, and euphoria at the sight of the beloved.

The child awakens a protective truth: “I must keep this being alive.” The partner awakens an exclusive truth: “I choose this one person above all others.” Both bonds matter, but they are not the same. One ensures survival. The other defines meaning.