I found myself reading about love again—I'm not even sure why, but something about it keeps pulling me in. Maybe it's because love, in all its complexity, holds a mirror of who we are. Somewhere in the middle of those pages, a question quietly surfaced: What does a lover truly give to the beloved?
The philosopher Erich Fromm in his book The Art of Loving answers that the lover gives of himself—not in the dramatic sense of dying for the beloved, but in a far more intimate way: by offering something from the very core of his being. He gives from his joy, his passion, his understanding, his knowledge, his humor, his sorrow—from everything that makes him truly alive. It is the gift of presence, of essence, of the living self.
Fromm’s answer also helped me make sense of another question I’ve long been curious about: Why do two people who are truly in love often end up resembling each other? I mean, I swear it was more than ten times when I saw two people truly in love, and they literally started to look like each other. Like, when you see them together, you can immediately tell how much they resemble each other physically. And then, when you talk to them, you realize how much their thinking starts to sync up, even their way of talking, and their vibe—everything starts to match, and for a moment, you might think that they are somehow kind of siblings. This is why lovers imitate each other constantly.
This philosophical perspective is beautifully reflected in one of the most enduring love myths in Greek mythology, I'm talking definitely about the story of Eros and Psyche. In Greek mythology, Eros—known as Cupid in Roman mythology—is the god of love and desire. He represents the cosmic force that pulls beings together, a godly energy of attraction. Hesiod’s Theogony, one of the earliest accounts of the Greek gods’ origins, describes Eros as being born at the very beginning of creation, emerging from chaos along with Gaia (Earth) and Tartarus (the Underworld) as one of the actual forces shaping the universe. Other stories portray him as the son of Aphrodite, the goddess of love, and Ares, the god of war—indicating how love itself can spring from the paradoxical blend of beauty and conflict, which is interesting.
So, Eros is often represented as a winged child with a bow and arrows, representing the sudden and penetrating nature of love. But his most revealing tale is not about the love he inspires in others—it is about the love he comes to experience himself when the god of love falls in love. The myth tells of Psyche, a mortal princess whose beauty evoked the jealousy of Aphrodite. In a bid to punish her, the goddess commanded her son Eros to make Psyche fall in love with a monster. But upon seeing her, Eros was overcome with love himself. Rather than destroy her, he saves her and whisks her away to a hidden palace where he visits her each night under the cover of darkness, forbidding her from seeing his face. Psyche finds joy in their union, moved by his gentle voice and tender presence, yet the mystery gnaws at her.
Encouraged by her jealous sisters, Psyche decides to secretly light a lamp one night to see her mysterious lover. Suddenly, she doesn’t find a monster, but a being of divine beauty—Eros himself. Overcome with astonishment and desire, a drop of hot oil falls from the lamp onto his shoulder. Betrayed and hurt, Eros disappears. In that moment, Psyche is left heartbroken—filled with sorrow, regret, and longing. This gives the beginning of her journey to reunite with him, a journey full of impossible tasks set by Aphrodite: sorting an impossible number of seeds, collecting golden fleece from wild rams, and descending into the Underworld to retrieve a box of eternal beauty from Persephone. Each trial seems beyond human strength, yet with help from sympathetic gods, nature, and even insects, Psyche manages to overcome them all.
In a final twist, Psyche, tempted by vanity, opens the box meant for the gods, hoping to steal a portion of divine beauty. Instead, the sleep of death escapes the box and consumes her. It is only then that Zeus, king of the gods, intervenes, moved by her determination and love. He revives her, grants her immortality, and unites her with Eros in eternal marriage. The myth ends not in tragedy but in divine celebration, as love triumphs over suffering, envy, and even death.
The question is, what is the link between Fromm’s philosophy and the Greek myth of Eros?
What connects this myth to Fromm’s philosophy is the notion that love requires more than desire; it demands transformation. Thake the Psyche’s journey as a reflection of the inner path that Fromm describes—the shedding of selfish instincts, the confrontation with doubt, and the gradual development of the capacity to love as an act of giving. Like Fromm’s lover, Psyche gives from herself: her resilience, her vulnerability, her willingness to suffer, and ultimately, her willingness to die. Her trials are not simply narrative devices but symbols of the psychological and existential labor required to love deeply.
Again, Eros, who begins the story as the active force of desire, must also evolve. His pain and disappearance are nothing but a turning point—not just for Psyche, but for himself. The drop of oil from Psyche’s lamp symbolizes the unavoidable wounds in love, the consequence of seeing the beloved not as ideal but as real. Yet it is this wound that allows love to grow beyond infatuation into something lasting. When they reunite, both Eros and Psyche are changed. Their love, once hidden and mysterious, becomes mutual, immortal, and public.
This led us to the importance of choosing the right person to love, every relationship in your life is not just a random occurrence—it is a direct reflection of your awareness. The people you are drawn to, the way they treat you, even the emotions they stir in you… all of these are simply mirrors that reflect your inner truth, whether you realize it or not. But what happens when your awareness changes? When you heal your wounds? When you break free from old illusions? The answer is simple, relationships either grow with you, or they drift away. The relationships we have are not random—they reflect our inner state. When we are in a place of fear, we attract relationships filled with doubts and attachments. When we don't value ourselves, we find ourselves in unbalanced relationships. But when we begin to heal, these patterns change, because our awareness no longer gravitates toward what was once familiar pain. Some people will grow with you. As your awareness deepens, you’ll notice that certain relationships become more grounded, open, and peaceful. There’s less drama. Less power struggle. It’s as if the relationship clears up like water that’s been stirred and finally settles.
Others will quietly slip away. You’ll find yourself naturally drifting from relationships that were based on unhealed wounds. What once felt essential might suddenly feel out of sync with the person you’re becoming. And then, some will end abruptly. People who once felt like soulmates may no longer understand you—not because you’re “better,” but because you no longer exist on the same frequency. What once connected you is simply no longer there.
You might even start attracting new people who resonate with the version of you that’s emerging. When you heal, your energy shifts—and the people who enter your life will mirror that shift. They’ll speak your emotional language. You won’t need masks or performative closeness. You’ll just… connect.
At the heart of it all, love isn’t just this magical feeling that happens out of nowhere—it’s something we create and grow into. Fromm put it best when he said love means giving from the most alive, authentic parts of ourselves—not out of need, but out of fullness. And that idea comes to life in the myth of Eros and Psyche. Their story isn’t just some romantic tale—it’s about how real love requires transformation. Psyche had to go through pain, growth, and deep self-discovery before she could truly reunite with Eros. That’s how love works—it asks us to evolve. And when we bring that back to our everyday lives, it clicks even more. Our relationships are mirrors. They reflect where we are in life. When we’re carrying wounds, we attract people and dynamics that match those wounds. But as we heal and become more self-aware, everything starts to shift. Some people grow with us, some drift away, and new ones show up who match our new energy. So maybe love isn’t about “finding the one” as much as it’s about becoming someone who loves deeply, consciously, and with truth. Because when your awareness changes, everything else—especially your relationships—starts to change too.