Minor Theories of Care

This piece was written in conversation with my friend Lea.

Recommended song for reading: Take a Look (At Yourself) by Guru

I have been thinking lately about necessity. About what — and who — truly earns a place in one’s life. We speak easily about wanting connection, partnership, love. But we rarely question whether desire alone justifies entanglement.

Because there is a singular topic dominating every conversation I’ve had recently, regardless of the company. I make this distinction because the demographic is vast: from my peers in their mid-twenties to my sister’s circle, my mother’s generation, and finally my neighbor, who is precisely seventy-five. Despite the decades separating them, they all circle back to one question: “Are you seeing anyone?”

It fascinates me how this question persists regardless of age, education, status, or experience. Partnership seems to remain on the central axis around which women’s lives are expected to rotate.

If I am honest, the question provokes a giggle. I usually deflect with, "How is that relevant?" or "I am better off alone," but neither is the whole truth. I am aware that we are social creatures with a biological imperative to share our lives. However, therein lies my specific understanding of solitude. I do not believe most people care about one another deeply enough to justify the entangling of two lives.

I observe the relationships within this range of women—again, regardless of status or education and notice they all orbit the same sort of gravity: finding a partner (emphasis on: not choosing, finding). I, however, have distinguished between wanting a partner and finding one who meets a threshold of necessity.

I was talking to my neighbor about my love life (or lack of one), and I told her: I don't want to invest time in someone who doesn't match me intellectually. I told her, "Money can buy a lot of things, but it can't buy taste." She pointed out that no one is ever going to be a 100% match. I grew up hearing that, but I’ve decided that if I enjoy my time alone so much, giving it up has to be worth it. As I said in my last essay, great art comes from necessity. I want to apply that to my relationships. If a person isn't "necessary" to my life, then they are just taking up space.

This brings me to the modern declaration of being "chalant." Recently, I’ve seen many women online proudly claiming this label. Meaning: they care. They care loudly, publicly, declaratively.

And I can’t help but ask—why? And more importantly: for whom?

I am only willing to be "chalant"—to offer that visible, active care—in situations that merit it. When I see women pouring this energy into men who cannot answer a text within ten minutes, in an era where we check our phones every two, I want to shake them. They treat "chalantness" as a virtue in itself, but without discernment, it is merely self-sacrifice. I am not against caring; I am against mediocracy—the rule of the average. I refuse to offer any kind of attention to mediocrity.

Do not misunderstand me; I claim no moral superiority. I am chaotic and mental, and this is my blog where I document my observations. The truth is, I have been the most "chalant" person on earth for years. I gave high-value care to people who did not deserve a moment of my headspace. But as time passes, my withdrawal is not just a fear of being hurt—though I have been, and perhaps I am now immune. It is a realization that my care is a limited resource, and I am done spending it on those who cannot afford me.

To truly understand this shift, I have to compare who I am today with the person I was not long ago. Back then, when a man I loved ended our relationship with a cold, brief dismissal, my reaction was the definition of emotional inflation.

I responded to his withdrawal with an outpouring of words—paragraphs upon paragraphs sent in the quiet hours of the night, trying to bridge the gap he had created with my own vulnerability. He gave me silence; I gave him hours of emotional labor. I was trying to "explain" myself into being valued. I was heating a room that didn't just lack a roof—it didn't even have walls.

Contrast that with this week. I recently shared a brief exchange I had with someone—a classic case of someone resurfacing after letting things fade without explanation. His excuse was weak: "I pulled back when I were busy... I just let it drift."

My reaction now was the definition of emotional symmetry. I didn't write a paragraph asking how he could be so careless. I didn't try to prove I was worthy of a better explanation. I simply replied: "It is okay. Drifting happens and it's human."

My friends read my response and looked at me in disbelief. They asked, “How are you so detached?” And here, I have to highlight the fact that I genuinely enjoyed this specific person's company.

I discussed this with a close friend, and she pinpointed exactly what was happening. She told me: "I notice people are hurt by your peace because they expect you to need them."

She went further, and what she said stuck with me: "Let’s put it this way: this world—this society—is based on dependence. In whatever form it may be. Now, you can say you lost the game once you don’t need anyone anymore, but also, you won."

It left us both wondering: Is this loneliness or freedom? Is loneliness freedom? Is freedom loneliness?

It is a valid question. But despite the existential ambiguity, I know one thing: I am not detached.

My friends think “detachment” means locking the door. They think it implies I have built a wall or numbed myself to avoid feeling. That isn't the case. I feel everything quite deeply.

My door is wide open. The lights are on. The music is playing. I am “chalant” - I am warm and ready to welcome connection. The difference is that I no longer stand on the porch screaming for people to come inside. I no longer run down the driveway to drag them in by the hand. I stay in the warmth of my own home. If you walk through the door, you will find me happy and receptive. But if you stand on the sidewalk looking confused, I will not come out to fetch you.

I call this emotional symmetry. It is the discipline of matching the energy in front of me.

I have stopped projecting my own high levels of care onto people who are only offering me crumbs. I am simply connected exactly as much as they are. If a man approaches me with consistency and depth, I will meet him there with my full heart. But if he approaches with half-hearted excuses or sporadic attention, I will meet him there, too. I will meet him at the level of the casual. I will not try to compensate for his lack of effort with my own surplus of care.

This is why I feel so at ease. I am acting like a mirror. If you stand in front of me and smile, I will beam back at you. If you step back and fade into the background, I will simply watch you go. I won't chase you, because a mirror doesn't chase the object it reflects. It just stays right where it is, whole and unbroken.

So when I respond to these men, I don't feel the sting of rejection or the thrill of hope. I feel the calm satisfaction of someone who knows the value of her own time. I am not being cold; I am just refusing to heat a room that has no roof (or not even walls).

* Chalant is a linguistic ghost - a word we invented because the official dictionary only provides terminology for not caring. Perhaps that explains everything.