Love is not a Relationship
- Karin Szivacsek
- Jun 23
- 4 min read
So what is Rebelleheart about?
Even when I began assembling the fragments and selected letters to Daniel, I found it difficult to place it within a single genre.
Because my inner world—which the book explores and expresses—was so multifaceted, the writing shifted accordingly. Sometimes from day to day.
At times, it felt like memoir.
At times, a meditation.
Sometimes violent, sometimes soft.
And sometimes it felt senseless.
But—if you look closely—there is one red thread weaving through all the musings, the highs and lows, the wild jungles, the still waters, the fresh winds.
LOVE.
More than once, during the process of writing, of getting naked and undone, of breaking and mending, I asked myself:What the hell is this relationship with Daniel? How should it even be defined? The answer is simple.
It wasn't a relationship at all.
We met in a breakfast hut, during one of his seminars. I walked in, he looked up from his plate, our eyes met—and it was like drowning into each other.And that was it. Complete. Inevitable. Inexplicable. And unstoppable.
What connected us was love.
Beyond definition.
Beyond security.
Beyond concepts of the mind.
It altered my mind—if not broke it at times—and although I walked the edge more than once, not for a single moment (not even today) do I regret one millisecond of this timeless love story.
Based on that, I want to share something I came across on Facebook today.
It’s by another writer, Zen Prem, and it resonates deeply with what Rebelleheart also holds:
LOVE IS NOT A RELATIONSHIP
By Zen Prem
Love is not a relationship.
You think it’s love.
But really, it’s just a well-practised performance.
Relationships are performance.
Blueprints. Stories. Agreements.
Sometimes sacred.
Sometimes survival.
Sometimes just fucking habit with a shared postcode.
And love?
Love doesn’t give a shit about your story.
Love is the fire that burns it to the ground.
Love is not a relationship.
It’s the fire that walks in uninvited.
It doesn’t promise to stay,
Only to burn away what was never true.
It doesn’t care how well the furniture matches.
It doesn’t care about your couples therapy.
It doesn’t care how many books you’ve read, or how fluent you are in attachment styles.
Love asks:
Are you real?
Are you awake?
Are you still pretending?
Love is the moment the mask slips,
And you realise the script you’ve been reading from was never yours.
It’s not the dinner dates,
the weekend getaways,
the “how-was-your-day?” texts,
or the couple selfies curated for strangers.
It’s the stillness beneath all of that.
It’s the split-second of unfiltered truth
that passes between two people
when neither is pretending.
No performance.
No choreography.
Just the raw hum of …
“Fuck. It’s you.”
Love doesn’t need a name.
It doesn’t wait for mutual timing,
for your trauma to be healed,
or for your lives to be aligned.
It just happens.
Inconveniently.
Unreasonably.
Unforgettably.
And sometimes, it doesn’t lead to commitment.
It doesn’t end in marriage.
It doesn’t become a home with matching towels.
Sometimes, it just cracks you open…
then leaves.
Because love isn’t here to stay.
It’s here to wake you the fuck up.
To tear through your comfort,
your emotional laziness,
your spiritual bypassing,
and ask:
Are you even alive in this bullshit life you built?
Love is not a relationship.
It’s the soul collision that reminds you what real feels like before you go back to what’s easy.
Relationships are what we build when we want to feel safe.
Love is what happens when we’re finally fucking honest enough to not need safety as a fucking condition.
And most people aren’t ready for that.
They want love that doesn’t change them.
Love that fits their fucking furniture.
Love that signs the lease and makes it to yoga on time.
But real love doesn’t fit.
It breaks.
And if it doesn’t destroy some part of the life you faked…
It probably wasn’t real.
They didn’t stay.
They shattered your sleep.
They mirrored your bullshit until you couldn’t look away.
They kissed your soul awake,
Then walked out the fucking door.
Not because they didn’t love you.
But because their love had already done what it came here to do.
Love isn’t the relationship.
It’s the moment you’re undone by truth.
It’s what cracks the illusion.
And most of us spend our lives chasing the structure, while running from the fire.
Zen Prem
This is for the people who lost someone they felt everything with, and mistook their leaving for failure. It reframes that kind of love as holy rather than broken.
It wasn’t meant to stay. It was meant to undo you
Co author of Beyond Bullshit To Bliss with Samantha
This is exactly what I tried to articulate—back then, more ten years ago—while living and writing Rebelleheart.
In different words, with a different voice, but with the same essence.
The love that doesn't fit inside definitions.
The love that doesn't guarantee safety.
The love that undoes you.
That kind of love is not failure.
It’s what cracked me open.
And made me whole.
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