From an embarrassingly young age, girls of my generation were spoon-fed the idea that sex wasn’t just part of a relationship — it was the moment, the make-or-break. The main event, a glittering main attraction everyone else seemed to have rehearsed for.
And as a virgin, the whole thing felt less like intimacy and more like opening night at a show I never auditioned for. At that point, not only had I never been in a relationship, but boys were, to me anyway, an uncharted no-man's land, adolescent question marks I wasn't ready to question yet.
But growing up has a funny way of shifting one's perspective. Suddenly, boys started to become more and more appealing, and sex was supposed to be this raw, perfectly imperfect human interaction. Yet for years it had been framed as a spectacle demanding confidence, stamina and vulnerability. But with a new age came a new problem. Now that sex was no longer a stranger and had integrated its way into our lives, there was pressure to keep the flame lit. A need to take part in this constant choreography of desire where fireworks were mandatory and the pressure to “keep things exciting” hung over everything like a stage cue.
A few days ago, TikTok — the modern oracle — served me a video of a middle‑aged man insisting women shouldn’t change in front of their partners. His theory? The first undressing is thrilling because it’s new. But if your partner sees you naked every day, it becomes… routine. It was as if he was comparing the most vulnerable human state to that of a new handbag: sleek, sexy, confidence‑boosting — until it becomes your everyday classic. Still loved, still reliable, but no longer the showstopper it once was.
And as I sat with that analogy, I asked myself:
When did we decide that love had to be a never‑ending fireworks display?
Because yes, novelty fades. Butterflies settle. But isn’t that the point? Aren’t relationships meant to evolve from explosive chemistry to something softer — like a warm cup of coffee on a rainy morning? Fireworks are dazzling, but no one can live in a constant state of ignition. A never-ending chorus of self-pressure. The high of the beginning isn’t meant to last forever, and chasing it is exhausting.
We forget that the honeymoon phase was never about the feeling. It was about the person. The one who gave us the fireworks at first, but who stays long after the sky goes dark.
Love, I’ve learned, is a patchwork quilt of sparks, silence, irritation, comfort and joy. It’s two people choosing each other for reasons far deeper than adrenaline.
I’ve been in a healthy relationship for a year now. And just like everyone else, we’ve had our ups and downs, but never once did I think that any issue we had was because I changed into my pyjamas in front of him. Still, that man’s video lingered. Because I realised what he was trying to help women preserve — that early‑stage electricity — was exactly what I’d been quietly mourning myself.
At twenty-three, it's difficult to admit that there are points in time when my libido dips to an all‑time low. Weeks where I simply am not in the mood. Not because love is fleeting or the attraction has faded. I just… don’t feel like it. And the guilt I have felt is suffocating. Is it hormones? Burnout? Am I somehow failing at being a girlfriend?
So after a long period of deliberation, back and forth in my mind. I decided the best thing to do was head the problem head-on and talk to my partner. What began as an awkward topic ended up being a conversation that spanned hours. And in that conversation, we realised we were both chasing the beginning — the tension, the anticipation, the spark. But we also realised that what we have now is richer, deeper, and so much more binding. So instead of letting the suffocating guilt eat away at me, when we want to, we do. When we don’t, we talk, we connect, we exist together.
Because even without a constant sex life, he stimulates me in ways that feel just as intimate. We talk about everything and anything. And hearing him speak passionately about the things he loves feels like its own kind of firework — quieter, deeper, more lasting. I think the key to remember, in situations like these, is that your partner isn't just simply someone you're physically intimate with; they're your friend, and communication is key.
It’s comforting to know that even if we never had sex again (which - let’s be honest, is not happening), there would still be a thousand reasons to stay. I love him not because of the fireworks, but because he’s him. The one I fell in love with — not just in the beginning, but every day after.