Despite the words of the iconic Pat Benatar: Love is NOT a battlefield
It’s early winter, that in-between stretch where fall is still clinging on but the holidays are already creeping in around the edges.
The sky is that soft gray that makes everything feel quieter. A few stubborn leaves are still hanging onto the trees outside my window, but most of them have already surrendered—scattered across the yard, soaked from last night’s rain. There’s a string of half-lit holiday lights down the street that someone put up a little too early, and my coffee is just cool enough to sip while I watch the last bits of autumn drip off the branches.
Somewhere between the steam from my mug and the slow, bare unraveling of the trees, my brain wandered to this: for most of my life, love has been described like a war zone.
We grew up with Pat Benatar in the background insisting that “love is a battlefield.” Iconic, dramatic, full of staying-together-through-the-pain energy.
But if love is a battlefield, who exactly are we at war with? The world? Our own baggage? Or each other?
No wonder so many of us end up exhausted, confused, and low-key strategizing our text responses like we’re playing chess on hard mode. And it doesn’t help that it’s so much easier to swing a sword from behind a screen. A sharp text, a snarky DM, a cold “k.” — you don’t have to see their face when they read it or hear the silence on the other end of the line.
Before all this, if you wanted to say something harsh, you pretty much had to do it in person or at least over the phone, where you’d hear the wobble in their voice or the pause before they answered. Sure, you could write a letter, but that took time — time to cool off, time to re-read, time to decide if you really wanted to drop that emotional grenade in their mailbox. Now it’s a three-second impulse and a blue bubble.
But here’s what I’m slowly, stubbornly learning over many cups of coffee and more than a few messy experiences:
In love, if you don’t win together, you both lose.
“Winning” alone isn’t actually winning.
The sneaky ways power struggles show up
Most of us don’t sit down and say, “You know what I’d love? A nice simmering power struggle.”
But dating has all these tiny moments where it’s so easy for it to turn into a game:
Who texts first
Who "cares less"
Who waits longer to reply
Who "wins" an argument
Who gets to say, “Well you were the one who…”
Who gets chased and who does the chasing
None of that is labeled as a “power struggle” on the surface. It just feels like protecting yourself.
You don’t want to seem too eager.
You don’t want to give more than they’re giving.
You don’t want to be the only one vulnerable.
So you start playing little games. You pull back when you want to lean in. You wait for them to make the first move—emotionally, physically, conversationally—because you’re scared to go first and “lose.”
And the wild thing? They might be doing the exact same thing.
Now you’ve got two people who like each other… both trying not to lose.
Nobody’s winning.
When “winning” becomes losing
Power struggles in dating usually look like this:
You “win” the argument, but now they’re hurt or shut down.
You “win” by not texting first… and the conversation dies.
You “win” by staying guarded… and never get to feel truly close.
You “win” by being the one who cares less… and accidentally convince them you’re not that into them.
Technically, you might feel a tiny surge of satisfaction in the moment.
“I held my ground.”
“I didn’t cave.”
“They’re the one reaching out, not me.”
But if the prize for “winning” is distance, disconnection, and someone who no longer feels safe with you… what exactly did you win?
In a power struggle, the relationship always pays the price.
There is no version of “I won, you lost” that leads to the kind of love most of us actually want:
safe, warm, honest, playful, affectionate, stable.
Love is a team sport, not a tug-of-war
I’m starting to think the whole metaphor needs a makeover.
Love isn’t a battlefield.
It’s more like being on a two-person team in a really complicated game that neither of you totally knows the rules to.
You’re both bringing your own playbooks:
Your past relationships
Your attachment style
Your triggers and soft spots
Your ideas about what “being cared for” looks like
And sometimes those playbooks clash.
You’re expecting one thing; they’re expecting another.
You think you’re saying, “I need reassurance,” but they hear, “You’re failing.”
They think they’re saying, “I need space,” but you hear, “You’re being abandoned.”
That’s where the power struggle tries to sneak in.
You feel misunderstood, so you push back.
They feel attacked, so they defend.
And suddenly you’re on opposite sides of the rope, pulling against each other.
But what if, instead, the goal was always:
We’re on the same side of the rope. It’s us vs. the problem, not me vs. you.
Now “winning” looks totally different:
We both feel heard, even if we disagree.
We both feel safe bringing up hard stuff.
We both know neither of us is trying to “one-up” the other.
That’s team energy—not battlefield energy.
The quiet skill that changes everything: co-regulation
This is the unsexy superpower nobody puts on their dating profile:
“I’m good at co-regulating when things get bumpy.”
But honestly? That’s the stuff that keeps love alive.
Co-regulation is just a fancy way of saying:
When things get intense, we help each other calm down instead of making it worse.
That might look like:
“Hey, I’m feeling a little activated. Can we slow down and talk this through?”
“I’m not mad at you. I’m just scared. Can I tell you why?”
“I want to understand what you meant. Can we rewind for a second?”
It’s vulnerable. It’s not cool, aloof, or mysterious.
But it’s how you stop a tug-of-war from turning into a full-on emotional wrestling match.
And if you’re reading this thinking, “Okay but where is the person who can do that with me?”
Same. That’s the whole point.
My perspective:
I’m less and less interested in whether someone is “good at dating” in the app sense—perfect photos, clever banter, curated playlists, polished answers, all green flags no notes.
I’m more interested in this:
1) When there’s a misunderstanding, do you want to repair it—or win it?
2) When I say “That hurt my feelings,” do you get defensive, or curious?
3) When you get triggered, do you shut down, lash out, or let me in on what’s happening?
4) Do you secretly believe relationships are competitions—who needs who the least, who can walk away first, who holds the power?
Because I don’t want to “win” a power struggle with someone I care about.
I want to find a teammate who will stand next to me, look at whatever weird, messy, confusing thing is happening between us, and say:
“Okay. This feels bad. But I’m here. Let’s figure it out together.”
That’s it.
That’s the whole dream.
Not perfection. Not drama. Not constant fireworks.
Just two humans, choosing—over and over—to be on the same team instead of opposite sides.
Opting out of the game
The hard part is that the culture around dating often rewards game-playing:
Don’t double text.
Don’t respond too fast.
Don’t let them know how much you like them.
Keep the upper hand.
Make them chase you.
And listen, I get it. Some of that advice is about not pouring yourself into someone who’s clearly not showing up.
But there’s a difference between:
Protecting your time, energy, and dignity, and
Treating every connection like a contest you have to win.
So I’m experimenting with a new approach:
If I like someone, I tell them.
If I’m confused, I ask instead of assuming.
If I feel hurt, I try to name it instead of punishing or pulling away in secret.
If it turns into a power struggle, I notice that—and opt out.
Because if the only way to “win” with someone is to out-maneuver them emotionally, that’s not my person. That’s not a relationship; that’s a battle.
Love is not a battlefield. It’s a practice.
Real talk: I don’t have this all figured out.
I still get triggered. I don’t feel the urge to “win” anymore—I’m much more afraid of losing something real or the possibility of something good. But I’ve gotten pretty good at handling the texting part in a genuine, grounded way. If I don’t text back immediately, it’s not a dramatic pause for effect; it’s me giving myself time to process and decide what I actually want to say. When I know what needs to be said, I say it.
That doesn’t mean I’m fearless. It’s still hard to say how I feel knowing some people will use that vulnerability against me. But I’m finding that the more I show up—genuine and honest and a little bit soft—the more the right people come toward me. It’s not a game anymore; it’s an opening. I’m not trying to outplay anyone. I’m trying to create a safe space they can step into if they want to.
The more I date—and the more I pay attention—the clearer this gets:
Winning in love looks like mutual emotional safety.
Winning looks like both people feeling chosen, not one person feeling conquered.
Winning looks like two nervous systems that can eventually find calm around each other, even after a conflict.
Love is not a battlefield.
Obsession might be. Ego might be. Control might be.
But love?
Love is the quiet, brave decision to sit on the same side of the table and say:
“I don’t always know what I’m doing. You don’t either.
But if we’re both willing to learn each other—and protect us more than we protect our own hearts—maybe we’ve already won.”