From grandmothers to ghosting, from hunter-gatherers to modern therapy – what our relationships carry today is both ancient and entirely new.

“I thought love would feel easier by now,” she said, meeting my eyes with a steadiness that carried more tiredness than drama. “Nothing’s really wrong. We function. We get on. We’ve built a life together. But I feel like a piece of the furniture now. It’s all routine. We’re just living alongside each other.”

She says it carefully. This is not a woman in crisis, or collapse, or complaint. She is someone who has stayed.

I hear this often now in my practice. Not catastrophe, not scandal, not an ending anyone can point to, though those happen too. More a sense of drift inside relationships that still funciton. Two competent adults. A shared life. A steady routine. And a subtle loss of closeness that’s difficult to articulate and therefore easy to live with for too long.

This form of relational bewilderment isn’t new. What’s new is the world we’re trying to do love inside of.

When Stability Was Enough

Fifty or sixty years ago, relationships were held in place by stronger social scripts. Most people married before the age of 30, roles were more clearly defined, and extended family was more present. Community did more of the containing. Not because everything was better. It wasn’t. But because the emotional and practical weight of life was spread across more shoulders.

Today, intimacy sits in a very different ecosystem.

We still want partnership, but we want it alongside autonomy. We want stability, but we also want freedom. We want comfort, and we want growth. We want our partner to feel like home, and also like a portal into a bigger life.

So we ask one relationship to do what used to be distributed across a whole network (Cherlin, 2004): confidant, co-parent, sexual partner, financial collaborator, emotional regulator, best friend, safe haven, and sometimes, therapist-by-proxy. When that becomes too heavy, we often decide something is wrong with us, or with them, or with the relationship istelf, rather than recognising that the job description has expanded.

Relationships aren’t failing. We’re just asking them to hold what once took a village.

From bands to nuclear couples

For most of human history, intimate bonds were embedded in groups (Hawkes et al., 1998). Long before agriculture or settled societies, human life was organised around interdependence: hunter-gatherer communities relied on shared caregiving, collective labour, and mutual protection. Humans evolved neurobiological systems to support bonding and cooperation, shaped by hormones like oxytocin, dopamine, testosterone, and oestrogen. These systems helped ensure reproduction and the survival of offspring who required prolonged care due to our increasingly sophisticated brains. But parenting and protection were never the responsibility of two individuals alone. Early humans practiced alloparenting, with caregiving shared across kin and group members. 

Modern Western life, particularly in individualist societies, gradually narrowed that unit. Industrialisation and increased mobility pulled people away from extended families and local communities. The nuclear couple became the centre of the social universe. We gained autonomy and choice, but we lost scaffolding.

For much of the mid-20th century, the success of a relationship was measured by its endurance – marriage until death – shaped by dominant religious and social norms. The implicit question was not about fulfilment, but about fit: Is this the right kind of life? Over time, that question changed. We began asking something new: Is this relationship helping me become more myself?

It reflects a profound cultural shift. We now expect intimate relationships to support individuality, meaning, and psychological growth, not just continuity or social order.

That expectation can be deeply liberating. It can also be destabilising, especially when our beliefs and values evolve faster than our nervous systems can adapt. The result is not relational failure, but strain: ancient attachment needs trying to live inside modern conditions of pressure, pace, and perpetual self-optimisation.

The quiet fractures of modern love 

Modern love asks us to hold two needs at once: security and freedom.

In theory, that sounds manageable. In practice, it’s a daily negotiation. The part of us shaped by attachment wants safety, predictability, and belonging. The part shaped by contemporary culture wants autonomy, self-expression, and change. When those needs collide, it rarely looks dramatic. More often it shows up as irritation, withdrawal, low desire, or the quiet sense of being either too much or not enough.

In long-term partnerships, desire is often the first casulty. Not because love is gone, but because intimacy struggles where someone feels managed, criticised, or emotionally invisible.

Desire needs safety, yes, but it also needs space and play. It needs to be met as a person, not just a role. Over time, many long-term couples slip into an efficient choreography of logistics, childcare, admin, work, and money. From the outside, it can look like stability. On the inside, it can feel like two people running a life rather than sharing one.

Midlife tends to expose these fault lines. Sometimes quietly. Sometimes with a big bust up. Bodies change. Energy shifts. Children need us differently or less. Work identities evolve. Losses accumulate. The people inside the relationship may have changed, but the relational contract often hasn’t.

The nervous system notices first. What once felt manageable begins to feel constricting. Irritation replaces tolerance. Desire goes offline. It can feel as though the relationship itself is the problem, when something subtler may be happening.

What love asks of us now

We are living through a strange era: more choice, more psychological language, more awareness, and less collective support. In the same week we might see a dedicated grandfather quietly anchoring a family through school runs, and a dating app conversation evaporating mid-sentence. From grandparenting to ghosting, our relational world contains both ancient attachment needs and entirely new cultural habits.

So what does this evolving relational world ask of us?

When love goes quiet rather than breaks, how long do we live alongside each other before we notice what’s missing?

When it breaks loudly, how do we tell the difference between necessary rupture and avoidable loss?

And when both people have changed, but the agreement between them hasn’t, what would it mean to pause and look again, rather than rush to decide?

This article was written by Veronika Kloucek, Senior Psychotherapist, Trainer, Supervisor

If this article resonates and you would like to find out how I can help you, contact me to schedule a confidential enquiry call today. I work in private practice and head up The Village Clinic.

References:

Bowlby, J. (1988). A secure base: Parent-child attachment and healthy human development. New York, NY: Basic Books.

 Cherlin, A. J. (2004). The deinstitutionalization of American marriage. Journal of Marriage and Family, 66(4), 848–861. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.0022-2445.2004.00058.x

Hawkes, K., O’Connell, J. F., & Blurton Jones, N. G. (1998). Grandmothering, menopause, and the evolution of human life histories. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 95(3), 1336–1339. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.95.3.1336

Perel, E. (2006). Mating in captivity: Reconciling the erotic and the domestic. New York, NY: HarperCollins.

Lachman, M. E. (2015). Mind the gap in the middle: A call to study midlife. Research in Human Development, 12(3–4), 327–334. https://doi.org/10.1080/15427609.2015.1068048