When Limerence Meets Non-Monogamy

This post began as a private journal entry — a space for me to untangle my own feelings before I ever intended to share them. But as I reread the words, I realized how common these emotions are for anyone practicing conscious non-monogamy. So I’m sharing them here, not as advice, but as an honest reflection — one that might offer comfort or clarity if you’ve ever felt the same.

I woke up feeling… pissy. There’s no other word for it.

The limerence is intense — that bright, dizzy mix of longing and anxiety that comes with being newly attached. I wanted a romantic connection, and I got one. I asked for this. But now my body hums with wanting more — more presence, more reassurance — and I can’t ask for it, not in the way my nervous system craves.

It’s a strange kind of ache: wanting to celebrate his freedom while feeling my own system tighten when I hear about his new lovers. I’m not a jealous person by nature, so why does this feel like sandpaper against my skin?

Maybe it’s fear. Fear that he isn’t using condoms. Fear that he isn’t being transparent with them about me. Or maybe it’s the double standard that still hangs in the air like smoke — that because I’m the open one, the married one, I’m the one who risks being called a slut. Men, meanwhile, are often granted quiet permission to explore. They’re seen as adventurous. We’re seen as reckless.

I don’t want to begrudge him his experiences. Truly, I want to be his cheerleader — to honor this season of rediscovery that often follows immense loss. But honesty requires admitting that I’m not indifferent to the details. My body still reacts. My heart still wants to know where it stands.

And perhaps that’s the real edge of non-monogamy: not the sex, not the sharing, but the tension between freedom and attachment.

I can hold love without possession — and still crave security. I can trust his words — the I love yous we’ve shared, the tenderness in his touch — and still feel unsettled when my nervous system doesn’t yet believe that safety and openness can coexist.

This is where polyamory becomes more than a lifestyle. It becomes a spiritual practice — one that asks us to confront the difference between what we know and what we feel.

If you’re navigating something similar — caught between the rush of new love and the ache of uncertainty — here are a few touchstones that might help:

✨ Name the chemistry. Limerence is not a flaw. It’s biology. When you can say, “This is just my attachment system lighting up,” you start to loosen its grip.

✨ Ask what safety looks like. Not control, but clarity. Conversations about sexual health and disclosure aren’t about ownership — they’re about nervous-system peace.

✨ Reclaim your story. You are not “too much.” You are someone who feels deeply and loves consciously.

✨ Remember: desire and security are not opposites. They can live together — but only when you stop shaming yourself for wanting both.

Non-monogamy isn’t meant to harden us. It’s meant to expand us. And sometimes expansion means sitting tenderly with the parts that still ache, still question, still want to know: Am I safe to love like this?