Why Love Can Exist without Romance
Imagine wanting to have it all: a loving partner, a cliché fairytale wedding, and kids in tow. But then imagine you don’t experience sexual or romantic attraction. That’s the “wedding night” out the window.
Hi. My name’s Caz, and I’m addicted to romantic comedies from the 90s and 2000s (Cue the AA chorus of hellos). I love films like Notting Hill, The Holiday, Music and Lyrics, and Never Been Kissed. These films filled my imagination growing up with dreams of meet-cutes and happily-ever-afters. In high school, this meant I thought I knew what love was; I was in love with my best friend. He was intelligent, kind, and caring, but it turned out he was also gay. I had no clue because I had thought “love” was liking somebody for their personality.
As I grew older and started having more faux pas—and the romantic comedies being released became more like No Strings Attached and Fifty Shades of Grey—I started experiencing an excruciating disconnect. Gone were those dreams of innocent meet-cute scenes, replaced by dread of scenes that would most likely require an intimacy coordinator on set. I mean, hell — the first penis I saw was at age 12 when flicking channels and accidentally finding Big Brother Uncut. I was scarred for life.
It wasn’t until a traumatising and awkward date when I was 25 that I discovered I was asexual. I can still picture the scene of my date unexpectedly trying to pick me up and move me onto his lap and belly-flopping. The asexuality part suddenly started to make so much sense. It made even more sense when I discovered shortly after that I was also aromantic, or “aroace.” (If you’re unaware, aromanticism is described as experiencing little to no romantic attraction, and asexuality is described as experiencing little to no sexual attraction. It’s a vast spectrum.)
Our hypersexualised society often places a lot of pressure on people to meet its standards of romance and sexuality: every advertisement for chocolate seems to require a close-up of a woman’s mouth, every song has some double entendre I don’t understand. (I legitimately thought 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop” was about lollies.) These pressures and differences leave those who don’t fit into these norms, including myself, feeling isolated and misunderstood.
When I first came out online, I was met with the usual uneducated invalidations, mainly consisting of “Oh, so you just don’t date?” or, even further from the truth, “So you don’t like anyone?” The truth is: I love love. I believe somebody is out there for everybody; we love in different ways. My version of love is dad humour, watching crappy TV together, and making tea for somebody when they’re unwell. My love language consists primarily of quality time, gifts, and words of affirmation. Just being there for somebody and showing you care.
The problem is finding that ‘somebody.’ Just asexuality alone represents only 1% of the global population, and I’ve got the double whammy. Ideally, I’d want a best friend who wants to get married and have a kid who looks half like me. But my reality is unfortunate. Dating apps are a no-go because most don’t even have aromantic or aroace as an option when selecting your identity. They’ve only just added asexuality. Dating in 2024, in general, is a cesspool, and also, quite unsafe for queer minority groups. I can’t explain how often I’ve matched with somebody just for them to ask me questions as if I’m their sexual health educator. It’s tiresome. I remember finally finding an asexual dating app—only to realise sugar-daddy scammers had taken it over. Ironic, huh?
One disheartening experience involved a blind date who seemed perfect on paper. We shared interests, humour, and values. But once I explained my aroace identity, his demeanour completely changed. He bombarded me with invasive questions, doubting the legitimacy of my experiences. It was a cruel reminder of how misunderstood and invalidated our community can be.
Before I came out, it was harder to feel validated, especially at family events, with traditional conversations around relationships feeling isolating. During lunches and brunches, topics of romantic plans would come up, and everyone would start sharing their planned romantic escapades. When it’s my turn, I mention spending time with a close friend, and someone usually quips, “Isn’t it time you found a partner?” These comments, often passed of as jokes, were a reminder of how queer-platonic relationships aren’t really seen as legitimate.
Society’s narrow definitions of love and relationships don’t just harm aroace people; they limit everyone. We can create a more inclusive world by expanding our understanding of love to include diverse forms of attraction and connection. It’s time for dating apps and social platforms to step up. Including options for aromantic and asexual identities is a start, but true inclusivity goes beyond checkboxes. It requires education and a cultural shift towards valuing all forms of love.
Despite the many challenges, there are moments of light. Finding the aroace community online has been a game-changer for me. Support groups, forums, and social media have connected me with others who share my experiences. My workplace is extremely open and welcoming, and I have been asked to join their Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion focus group to share my insights and lived experience. It’s a relief to talk to and be around people who understand or are willing to learn without requiring a lengthy explanation. These connections have been a lifeline, offering solidarity and understanding.
As we work towards greater acceptance, allies can play a crucial role. Listen to aroace voices, validate our experiences, and challenge societal norms that prioritise romantic and sexual relationships over others. Everyone deserves to feel seen and valued for who they are. Being aromantic and asexual in a world obsessed with romance and sex is challenging. But it’s also an opportunity to redefine love on our terms. My journey is ongoing, and while the path is rocky, it’s also filled with moments of connection and hope. Love, in all its forms, is worth fighting for.
Written by Caroline Elisabeth Cull
Find more of their work on Insta @click4caroline