Never Been In Love: My Aromantic Journey

Written by Genevieve Balivet

Like many aromantic (aro) people, I didn’t realize I was aro for a long time. It can be tough to figure out, since it’s a lack of romantic attraction rather than a presence of “alternative” (i.e. not straight) attraction. My aro journey was a long and winding one, but hopefully, it can illustrate some identifiers of being aro and explain how it feels. 

Straight A’s, Straight Girl?

For the first two decades of my life, I believed I was straight. In elementary school, I chose a crush—a boy who was conventionally attractive and didn’t bully me. My feelings for him didn’t extend beyond vague appreciation, but it was nice to fit in with my classmates, to whisper his name at sleepovers to a chorus of appreciative giggles. In middle and high school, I had “crushes”—boys I admired for their smarts, musical talent, fun personality, or good character. The possibility of liking them made me jittery and awkward around them, which matched descriptions of love I’d read. However, I never confessed my feelings. I wasn’t interested in a relationship. If I wanted to maintain my straight A’s, I didn’t have the time for romance. 

However, I also liked books and movies, and the moment my “crush” was fictional, my interest in “romance” skyrocketed. I had several fictional boyfriends—Fili from The Hobbit and Captain America from the then-budding Marvel Cinematic Universe, to name a few. Their wholesome personalities appealed to me. I liked to read, and later write, fanfiction exploring their bonds with family or friends. Of course, I squealed over them, a classic fangirl move. But my interest didn’t extend as far as kissing, hugging, or even holding hands. I didn’t realize people actually felt attracted to fictional characters. 

Yet I still believed I was both hetrosexual and heteroromantic. I didn’t feel strong attraction to women (I hadn’t met any nonbinary people yet), so I knew I wasn’t a lesbian. My church community also promoted abstinence and purity culture. Desire (especially for women) was shamed. I felt no desire at all, so I figured I was really good at obeying God. I assumed I would eventually fall in love, marry a man, and start a family. I just wasn’t ready.

Why Does Everyone Want to Kiss?

Through reading, I first discovered something was different about me. Books’ plots and magic systems interested me most, but for some reason, authors cared more about making people kiss. As romantic subplots became the plot, my irritation grew. The familial bonds and close friendships I preferred were being supplanted. Romance intruded on my fantasy stories, settled on the couch like it owned the place, and redirected all conversation back to itself.

It annoyed me so much I wrote a hyperbolic, sarcastic essay about it for my high school English class. These were my exact words (for context, I wrote to a hypothetical person who is shipping, or imagining two characters in a romantic/sexual relationship):

Does the word “friendship” ring a bell, perchance? Ah, I noticed how you scoffed at my naivety. It would seem I have fallen for this false notion of “friendship,” this outrageous belief that two people could care deeply about each other without intercourse being involved. Silly me; how could I believe platonic relationships exist?

Many aro people I’ve talked to say they felt weird or broken before discovering the label. Instead, I was angry. I was mad at the world for obsessing over something which didn't matter. Why couldn’t people stop bringing romance into everything? What was the big deal?

The term “aromantic” would not cross my path until my friend came out to me later that year. I had to look it up. For a long time, I reread “little to no romantic attraction,” confused. What was romantic attraction? At the same time, it sounded wonderful. I wish I could be like that, I thought. Wouldn’t it be nice to not have to worry about romance at all?

Figuring it Out

First, I realized I was asexual—meaning I felt no sexual attraction. As the YouTube channel Overly Sarcastic Productions explained it, sexual attraction is a physical response to seeing an attractive person, working as follows: 

The image is a three-panel comic strip featuring simple circular characters representing different orientations. In the first panel, there is a central blue circle labeled "An Attractive Person" with arrows pointing from it to two other circles. The top circle is gray and black with the word "Allosexual," indicating they feel sexual attraction. The bottom circle is gray, black, white, and purple, labeled "Asexual," indicating they don't feel sexual attraction. In the second panel, the asexual circle views the allosexual circle and thinks, "They're pretty!" with small circles indicating thinking. In the final panel, the asexual circle has blush marks and a thought bubble that says, "So now I want to..." Another bubble has a drawing of a piece of cake, and the final thought reads, "Anyway, back to my cake!"

In short, if I felt sexual attraction, I would know. 

Presumably, romantic attraction works the same way, but it is a more emotional than physical response. Confused but unsure where to turn for information, I labeled myself asexual and heteroromantic (straight but in the romantic sense only) and thought that was the end.

But the aromantic definition kept running through my thoughts. What did “romantic attraction” feel like? Though I’d read endless descriptions of butterflies in the stomach and uncontrollable blushing, they felt alien or artistic, as real as the dragons flying through books’ fantastical skies. Yet I often had deep desires to get to know people. I was drawn to them by an intense curiosity, a magnetic fascination. I wanted to be close to them—to share their space and time, and even to hug or snuggle with them if we knew each other well enough. Was that the same as romantic attraction? Was the nervousness I felt around them the fabled butterflies in the stomach? Was this love, the giddy excitement I felt near them? 

Yet I didn’t want to kiss them. I didn't want to date. I wanted to be close but not in that way. If anything, I had a friend crush (or as it's called, a “squish”).  

Had I ever felt romantic attraction?

Here and Queer

After a year of research and soul-searching, I began to identify as aromantic in my sophomore year of college. That was two years ago, and the label feels like it fits me more every day.

I am still learning the many facets of being aromantic. There are microlabels describing how or in what circumstances aro people experience romantic attraction. For example, “grayromantic” describes rare or weak attraction. There are also labels such as “romance-positive,” and “romance-repulsed,” to describe whether aro people are open to romance. Aro people can even use labels to describe what genders to which they feel romantic attraction, if they feel it: for example, someone can be both aromantic and panromantic. I haven’t felt the need to label myself in this way. That may change, but the labels are there for me, not I for them.

I don’t know how being aromantic will affect the rest of my life. I might want a queerplatonic partner in the future—a friendship which goes beyond the bounds of “regular” platonic love and moves into life partner territory. But for now, I cherish my friends and family, and I want to celebrate friendship and other forms of love through my writing. Most of all, I want to share this: not only is it okay to be aro, but it’s also really cool. It took me a long time to understand my identity. But now that I do, I wouldn’t want to be any other way.