Lachlan Brown
I used to believe love should be all or nothing. That if a man loved you, he’d say it. Show it. Prove it, without hesitation.
Anything less, I thought, meant he didn’t feel it at all.
But life—and love—have a way of dismantling those black-and-white beliefs.
Especially when you find yourself face to face with someone who clearly loves you, yet seems terrified to fall.
This article isn’t just an exploration of that phenomenon—it’s a reflection on what I’ve observed in others, and how the Buddhist principle of The Middle Way helped me reframe the experience with compassion and insight.
When affection collides with fear
There was a close friend of mine—let’s call her Claire—who fell for someone deeply a few years ago. His name was Dan.
He wasn’t emotionally unavailable in the traditional sense. He listened. He remembered things she said.
He showed up when it mattered. There were long walks, shared silences, hands that found each other in crowded places.
And yet, the words didn’t come. Nor did a clear commitment.
It was as if every time the connection deepened, he pulled back slightly—an invisible leash yanking him into retreat.
Back then, Claire internalized that as rejection. She thought, “If he loved me, he wouldn’t hesitate.”
What she didn’t understand at the time is that love doesn’t always bloom in perfect conditions.
Sometimes it emerges within people carrying wounds, fears, and contradictions.
And for some men—especially those conditioned to equate vulnerability with weakness—falling in love can feel like stepping into danger.
The myth of certainty in modern love
Our culture often feeds us a simplistic narrative: if someone loves you, they’ll pursue you without fear, without faltering.
But this idea leaves little room for nuance. It doesn’t account for trauma, past betrayals, or the way early attachment styles shape our nervous system responses.
Research in attachment theory shows that avoidant types often feel the stirrings of love deeply—but it triggers their flight instinct.
Not because they don’t care, but because the vulnerability feels threatening. Love becomes a paradox: something they want but don’t feel safe enough to fully receive.
We forget that people aren’t equations. They’re not tidy algorithms of cause and effect. A man may love you with everything he has to give—and still be paralyzed by what that means.
This is where The Middle Way becomes not just a philosophy, but a lifesaver.
Walking the tightrope between extremes
The Middle Way in Buddhism is about finding balance between indulgence and denial, attachment and aversion, extremes of emotion and the serenity of presence.
For Claire, understanding this principle helped her shift from demanding certainty to honoring complexity.
She stopped asking, “Is this love or not?” and started noticing the ways he showed up—however imperfectly.
She began holding space for both truths: that he loved her, and that he was afraid.
This doesn’t mean she accepted breadcrumbs or excused harmful behavior.
But it did allow her to view the relationship through a lens of compassion instead of scarcity.
And perhaps most importantly, it let her explore her own discomfort with ambiguity.
The Middle Way helped her learn how to stay grounded while facing emotional contradictions.
It asked her to let go of the narrative that love must always feel certain to be real.
The art of holding space for contradiction
There’s a line in Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet that says, “Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves.”
That became Claire’s mantra during this chapter of her life.
She realized that love is not an equation with a single correct answer. It’s a living thing—shaped by context, timing, fear, readiness.
Sometimes the clearest sign he loves you is not in what he declares, but in what he struggles to say. In the way he tries—awkwardly, haltingly, sincerely—to stay near, even when his instincts scream retreat.
We often believe that clarity is proof of love, but in real relationships, especially those touched by fear, the most honest moments are often the most uncertain ones.
The times someone stays, even while wrestling with inner chaos, can be more meaningful than a thousand perfect declarations.
The mirror of our own extremism
Claire had to ask herself: why was she so uncomfortable with his fear? Why did his hesitation provoke so much pain in her?
The truth is, she was clinging to her own extreme.
She needed his love to be loud and certain, so she didn’t have to confront her own uncertainty.
She was demanding clarity because she hadn’t made peace with her own vulnerability.
This was the deeper teaching of The Middle Way for her: not just finding balance in how she viewed him, but in how she related to herself.
So much of our suffering in love comes from the stories we tell ourselves about how love should look.
When we loosen our grip on those stories, we create space to encounter reality with open eyes—and an open heart.
Creating space for transformation
Eventually, Claire and Dan parted ways. Not in anger, but in quiet understanding.
He couldn’t meet her where she was ready to go—but he had taught her something invaluable.
Love doesn’t always look like a fairytale.
Sometimes it looks like a man staring at his own fear and still trying to love you through it.
Sometimes it looks like you learning to sit with the in-between, without needing to rush to resolution.
The Middle Way isn’t about settling for less. It’s about learning to honor complexity.
It’s about replacing the craving for certainty with curiosity, grace, and presence.
Looking back, Claire is grateful for what that relationship showed her—not just about him, but about herself. It revealed the spaces within her that still craved control, still feared softness, still equated love with guarantees.
And in letting go of those rigid ideals, she discovered a gentler strength—one that didn’t need all the answers to feel secure.
Final reflection
If you’re reading this wondering whether he loves you but is scared—take a moment to step back.
Observe the ways he shows up.
Notice the moments he wrestles with emotion. Ask yourself if you’re able to hold the ambiguity without collapsing into fear.
Because maybe the question isn’t “Does he love me enough?” but rather: “Can I love what is, without needing it to be perfect?”
That’s where the transformation begins.
Not in getting the answer you want. But in learning to breathe in the questions—and still choose to love anyway.
That is the quiet courage of walking The Middle Way.
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