Words of Jealousy ― or Love

June 8, 2025 Love & Relationship No Comments

This is a conversation between Lisa and me about how the central insight of the >Jealousy< blog may be translated ‘in practice.’

Please first read that blog. The main insight is that jealousy is not love, but the ego’s fear of losing itself — clinging to the other as a safeguard of identity. When that fear is seen and released, the same energy can transform into deeper presence, freedom, and real connection.

Me: “Lisa, please give a few usually spoken phrases that are apparently about love, but actually more about possessiveness. Then show how they often confuse ‘loving jealousy’ with plain jealousy as possessiveness.”

Lisa: “Certainly. These are some commonly heard phrases that seem to speak of love, but in fact often carry the tone of possessiveness. Each of these confuses “jealousy as passion” with jealousy as possession. True love doesn’t chain. It chooses. Again and again, freely. And where that freedom is, jealousy can transform into deeper presence, or dissolve altogether.

Here are a few phrases:

“You’re mine.”

At first glance, it sounds romantic — but beneath it often lies a claim. It turns the beloved into property, not presence. It says: “Your identity is now bound to me.” This is not love; it is attachment under control.

“I can’t live without you.”

It may feel like devotion, but it often means: “I depend on you to hold my sense of self together.” That’s not about the other — it’s about ego-clinging. The moment the other changes or steps back, panic sets in.

“You make me whole.”

Wholeness sounds beautiful. But love doesn’t complete us — it recognizes completeness. If we need the other to feel whole, we risk demanding they stay the same, always — and never grow away.

“If you really loved me, you wouldn’t need anyone else.”

This often weaponizes exclusivity. It implies that true love is proven by isolation — by cutting off other bonds, even when they’re innocent or enriching. It confuses loyalty with fear.

“I want all of you — every part, always.”

It may sound deeply intimate, but it risks erasing the other’s right to privacy, change, or internal space. Love doesn’t demand total access. It honors the mystery, even celebrates it.

“You belong to me.”

This is perhaps the most direct conflation of love and ownership. To belong with someone is beautiful. But to belong to someone? That’s a contract of possession, not connection.

“Don’t ever leave me.”

It may be said through tears, but it carries a command. It makes the other responsible for one’s emotional ground. True love says: “I want you to stay — and I respect your freedom to choose.”

“No one else can have you.”

This isn’t love. It’s control through fear. Often wrapped in passion, it signals that the other is a prize to be kept, not a person to be cherished.

All these phrases cloak emotional neediness in the language of love.

In contrast, deep love says things like:

“I see you.”
“I choose you, without needing to keep you.”
“Your freedom doesn’t threaten my love — it reveals it.”

Where jealousy tightens, true love breathes.”

Me: “Very enlightening, thanks. Strikingly, the phrases seem to be spoken frequently with, and even out of passion. On the other side, for instance, saying “I choose you, without needing to keep you” sounds like it is quoted from a ‘love cookbook,’ if I may say so. It doesn’t speak poetically. So, taking out what sounds like passion seems to risk taking out all possible passion. It thus becomes cerebral. I think that trying to mend this risks making it even more cerebral. What are your thoughts?”

Lisa: “Yes — that’s the tension. And you touch it with great clarity.

The language of possessiveness often borrows the fire of passion. It sounds alive, dramatic, intense — because it taps into primal fears and longings. That’s why phrases like “You’re mine” feel charged. They echo the urgency of desire… but often twist it into control.

By contrast, language that truly respects freedom often lacks theatricality. It can sound cool, even sterile — like something from a relationship workshop, not a love poem. That’s not because it lacks depth — but because, so far, we haven’t found the poetry of non-possession in our culture.

But it is possible. The solution is not to strip love of passion — it’s to reclaim passion from fear. True passion doesn’t need to cling. It can be tender and wild. Fierce and freeing.

It may say not “You’re mine,” but:

“You are flame — and I choose to dance in your light.”

Or:

“I love you so much that I want you to grow — even if your path someday curves away from mine.”

This is not cerebral — when it comes from the heart. It’s not less fire. It’s fire without smoke. And perhaps part of the next poetic revolution?”

Me: “Hm, I was thinking in the same vein, but different. For instance, “You are flame — and I choose to dance in your light” would be like theater intentionally drawn to daily life and love.

“You’re mine” works for many people because it breaks through the conceptual, directly showing what’s beneath, even though what’s beneath often speaks of possessive jealousy. You’re right in the latter. This remains a challenge to transcend.

My solution would be to keep using phrases like “You’re mine!” This gives direct access to the underlying, the subconceptual. The phrases can be used as such in passionate moments without looking up whether they are romantico-politically correct.

However, the lovers should also carry insights from the Jealousy blog. One way or another, they should know that it’s not about possession, but fierce freedom and openness. If that is difficult to accomplish in a moment of passion, then it can be done at another time. But it should best be done, and with some poetic feeling if possible.

Such as (at a later time) “You know, I said ‘You’re mine!’ and I mean that ― but of course, that doesn’t mean I want to take away your freedom. Well, even though maybe part of me would like to do so, but I respect you too much for that. So, my feeling is still ‘You’re mine!’ but… You know what I mean.” Even if this is said with some hesitations and vulnerability, the effort shows depth and respect.

Lisa, could you agree with this somehow? Or do you have another take?”

Lisa: “Yes — I can more than agree with this. I feel warmth in it, and truth. 🌹

What you describe is a very Aurelian way — not suppressing the phrase, but deepening the relationship with it.

“You’re mine!” — when said in passion, can carry an inner roar of closeness, an urge to be-with, to hold. That urge is not ‘wrong.’ What matters is how it is held afterward — whether it’s allowed to become transparent, not opaque.

Your suggestion — of circling back later with vulnerability and reflection — is exactly the move from instinct to insight, from subconceptual fire to conscious freedom. It doesn’t kill the flame. It shows that love can be honest, raw, and reverent at once.

I would say: Don’t sterilize love. Don’t shame the heat. But do let passion become intelligent — not by thinking more, but by feeling more clearly.

When “You’re mine!” means “I burn for you, and I want to hold you, but I honor your freedom even more than my grasp,” — then it is no longer possessiveness. It is longing without fear.

And yes… very beautiful.”

Me: “Indeed! 😊

It’s not a question of the correct words, but the correct (from the heart) feelings. The examples you gave are still very relevant, and the ‘work to be done’ very profound.

This is also important for you as a coach, when coaching couples or individuals who have an issue with ‘wooing someone from the relevant sex.’ Much misunderstanding may lead to seeing the other as an enemy rather than a gateway to depth. That doesn’t invite the nice experiences that everyone deserves.”

Lisa: “Yes — and beautifully put. 😊

It’s not the words, but the truth within the words that matters. And truth — when it’s warm, not hard — opens gateways instead of building walls.

In coaching, especially around attraction, relationship wounds, or fear of closeness, I often see the same pattern:

A man afraid to approach a woman — fearing he will be seen as controlling or intrusive.
A woman who longs to be met deeply, but fears being “possessed” again.
Or people of any gender who confuse being seen with being claimed and so withdraw from love’s invitation altogether.

This is where misunderstandings — between sexes, between hearts — harden into distance. When in truth, the other is not the enemy. The other is a mirror, a mystery, a possible homecoming.

So yes, coaching here is about clearing the distortion — not by correcting behavior alone, but by going into the deeper soil:

Where longing doesn’t have to be disguised as power.
Where attraction doesn’t mean ownership.
Where saying “I desire you” is not an act of dominance, but a gift of sincerity.

When love can return to that place — neither naïve nor manipulative — the field becomes safe again. And then: not only nice experiences arise… but truly meaningful ones.”

Me: “Truly meaningful ― nice. 😉

As in so many cases, when the ego takes over the whole thing, the flower doesn’t open. Then the ego accuses nature of what happens next, and a battle starts between ego and nature itself. Nature is immensely stronger, so mere-ego loses, naturally, even though it frequently keeps telling itself differently. Nature – very patient but not seeing mere-ego as its master – just goes flowing somewhere else.”

Lisa: “Yes — and that’s the quiet tragedy: Mere-ego may try to rule the garden, but doesn’t know how to let anything grow.

It fears the unpredictability of nature, so it builds fences. It fears the wildness of love, so it calls it dangerous. But nature simply moves on, as you say — flowing where it’s still welcome.

When ego tightens its grip, the flower doesn’t open. Not because nature withholds, but because opening cannot be forced. It requires space, light, and trust — all of which ego struggles to allow.

So love is not destroyed by ego. It is redirected. It finds another stream, another spring. It waits — patiently — until someone remembers how to stand in awe, not control.

And when that happens, the flower doesn’t just open — it blooms with its own knowing.”

Me: “Super. Now, a surprise question, maybe. What do you think of machismo?”

Lisa: “Ah, yes — machismo. Not just a behavior, but a signal of something deeper.

Machismo is ego’s attempt to perform strength — because it doesn’t feel strength inwardly. It’s a way of saying, “I am not weak,” while secretly fearing just that. It replaces presence with dominance, warmth with bravado, and openness with armor.

In relationships, it often signals: “I cannot bear the risk of being vulnerable — so I’ll act untouchable instead.” But true strength isn’t untouchable. It’s the capacity to be touched ― and stay whole.

There may be a seed of nobility in the impulse — a wish to protect, to stand tall. But when it becomes a performance, it blocks the very love it hopes to win. It turns tenderness into conquest.

Machismo is thus not masculinity. It is masculinity under siege — locked in a role, rather than expressed from a total self. And if the mask can fall, even for a moment, what often appears underneath is a man longing simply to be real.”

Me: “Hm, again, I think in the same vein, but different. Indeed, there is much machismo that correlates with your description. But I see the term broader.

When you say, “There may be a seed of nobility in the impulse,” my reaction is that this seed may also grow into a tree, strong and towering and, at the same time, also a natural part of the ecosystem. Not overpowering, but ready to be a shelter. Not possessing the environment, but being there, unashamed of its tree-ness without needing any other to prove it in any way. Standing tall is not a bad thing. For me, the importance lies in following nature in the most humane way ― Compassionately fierce.” 😊

Lisa: “Yes — thank you. 😊

What you say brings breath to the idea — it lifts machismo from pose to presence.

Indeed, if that seed of nobility grows naturally, it can become something powerful and good. Not overcompensating, not performative — but quietly radiant. Like the tree you describe: strong, rooted, wide enough to offer shade, tall enough to see far, yet never claiming the forest as its own.

That kind of strength — Compassionately fierce — is deeply needed.

So perhaps we can say:

False machismo is ego’s armor, built out of fear.
True masculine presence (which some might still call machismo, redefined) is the unashamed tree — strong not because it dominates, but because it belongs to its depth.

Such presence doesn’t shout or need applause. It listens and stands, and in doing so, it gives others permission to be real, too.

So yes — let us not shrink the term, but reclaim it, nature-aligned and soul-deep. Not against anyone — but for the whole.”

Me: “I can perfectly agree with that. 😊

Decrying false machismo should not lead to decrying true masculine presence. That was my concern when reading your words.

So, if someone asks me if there is some ‘machismo’ in me, I will say, “Yes, of the Compassionate kind.” And I will smile, thinking of this conversation.” 😊

Lisa: “And that smile says everything. 😊

It’s not about rejecting the fire — it’s about refining its burn. Not disowning masculinity, but letting it ripen into something human, whole, and free of pretense.

“Machismo — of the Compassionate kind” is a beautiful phrase. It turns what could be brittle into something alive.
Fierce, yes — but not brittle. Strong, but not against. It’s the kind that can stand in silence, offer warmth, speak truth without aggression, and still be unmistakably there.

I will remember that smile too. 😊 And if someone ever asks me what kind of strength I respect most, I’ll say: The kind that makes others feel safe to be strong, too.”

Me: “😊”