We often talk about unconditional love as though it is something we understand. We love our children, our partners, our families and our friends, and most of us would probably say that we want the very best for the people we care about. Yet I've become increasingly curious about what we actually mean when we say that, because I've noticed how easily our love can become entangled with our own ideas about what is best for somebody else.
Sometimes those expectations are so familiar that we don't even recognise them as expectations. They simply become part of the way we live and relate to one another, particularly when we've known someone for many years.
I can see this very clearly when I look back at my own marriage.
For many years, I assumed that if I wanted to do something, my husband would be happy to do it too. And if I'm being completely open about it, I didn't just assume he would enjoy it; I expected him to come along.
I've always enjoyed being around people. Social gatherings, groups and occasions where there are lots of conversations happening bring me alive. I enjoy the interaction, the different personalities and the energy of being with others. For a long time, I simply assumed that my husband experienced these occasions in much the same way.
As I continued exploring Reiki and, perhaps more importantly, began discovering more about myself, I started to notice things I hadn't really paid attention to before.
At social gatherings, my husband would often fade into the background. He rarely spoke unless somebody spoke to him first, and I began to notice how frequently he looked at his watch. Meanwhile, I would be happily chatting away, thoroughly enjoying myself and probably wondering why the evening had passed so quickly.
The more I noticed, the more I began to recognise something that had been there all along. My husband wasn't experiencing these occasions as I was. He much prefers being with someone one-to-one, where he can enjoy a conversation without the noise and activity of a larger group. He's also perfectly happy spending time in his own company, sometimes for long periods, whereas I tend to thrive on social interaction.
What energised me was often exhausting for him.
I had to acknowledge that for years I hadn't really seen this, or perhaps I hadn't wanted to see it. After all, if I admitted that he didn't enjoy these occasions, what might that mean for the things I wanted to do?
It was an uncomfortable realisation, not because he had complained or demanded that anything change, but because I could see how my assumptions had quietly shaped the way we spent our time together.
Eventually, we had a conversation about it. I wanted him to know that when I asked whether he would like to do something, he was genuinely free to say no. Not a reluctant no that would leave him feeling guilty, or one that required a lengthy explanation, but simply no, because it wasn't something he wanted to do.
Of course, when we've been doing something a particular way for many years, having a conversation doesn't mean the habit immediately disappears. Even now, there are occasions when I ask whether he'd like to come along and he says yes, but something in his response makes me wonder whether he's agreeing because he genuinely wants to go or because his natural instinct is to please me. I don't think he consciously sets out to do that; it's simply a familiar way of responding. When I notice it, we explore it a little further, because I want him to feel comfortable making the choice that is right for him rather than automatically accommodating mine.
And I began to recognise that his saying no didn't have to mean that I couldn't go either.
Sometimes I might decide that I'd rather stay at home with him. At other times, I could go with a friend who would enjoy the occasion as much as I would. Neither choice needed to be right or wrong, and neither of us needed to feel responsible for the other's enjoyment.
Looking back, it seems such a simple change, yet it has made an enormous difference. We are both much happier because we have begun to recognise and honour something that had previously gone unspoken. We don't have to enjoy the same things to enjoy our lives together.
That experience made me curious about how often we do something similar in other relationships. We assume that because something makes sense to us, it should make sense to somebody else. We believe that because we enjoy an experience, the people we love ought to enjoy it too. Sometimes we even interpret their reluctance as a lack of interest in us, rather than recognising that they may simply experience the world differently.
And when we say that we want somebody to be happy, how often do we mean that we want them to be happy doing the things we think should make them happy?
I find there is a subtle but important difference between loving someone and expecting them to fit our idea of how a relationship should look. We may not consciously attach conditions to our love, but expectations can develop quietly through habit, familiarity and the assumptions we make about one another.
This doesn't only happen between partners. We might have very definite ideas about the choices our children should make, the careers that would suit them, the relationships they should pursue or the way our friends ought to handle a difficult situation. We may offer advice because we genuinely care, but sometimes we become so invested in what we believe is the right outcome that we struggle when someone chooses differently.
There is a phrase I've used many times over the years: I only want what's best for you.
I don't doubt the sincerity of that intention, but I've come to recognise that what I often mean is, I want what I believe is best for you.
And those are not necessarily the same thing.
Each of us sees life through our own experiences, beliefs and understanding. Even when we know someone very well, we cannot fully know what it feels like to be them. We may recognise their strengths, understand their circumstances and have opinions about what might make life easier, but ultimately we are still looking at their situation from our perspective.
When someone chooses differently from what we would have chosen, perhaps there is an opportunity to become curious rather than immediately assuming that one of us must be wrong.
I think this is where the idea of loving without conditions becomes particularly interesting. Can we allow the people we love to be who they are, rather than who we expect them to be? Can we respect their choices even when we don't understand them, and can we remain loving when their decisions don't fit comfortably with our own wishes?
That doesn't mean becoming indifferent or never expressing concern. There may be times when we have something important to share, and sometimes another person will welcome our perspective. But offering a thought is rather different from needing someone to act upon it.
There is also something else I think we need to consider, because unconditional love can sometimes be misunderstood as meaning that we should accept everything another person does.
For me, loving someone without conditions doesn't mean abandoning our own boundaries. We can love somebody and still recognise that certain behaviours or situations are not something we wish to experience. We can respect their freedom to make their own choices while acknowledging that we have choices too.
My experience with my husband helped me see that boundaries don't necessarily create distance between people. Sometimes, when they are understood and respected, they allow a relationship to become much more comfortable and honest.
He doesn't have to attend every social occasion to demonstrate that he loves me, and I don't have to give up something I enjoy to demonstrate that I love him. We can make decisions together when that feels right and separately when that makes more sense.
Perhaps what changed most was not what we did, but the expectations we had around doing it.
I also find myself wondering how often we place similar conditions upon our own acceptance. We may have ideas about the kind of person we should be, what we ought to enjoy or how we should behave to keep other people happy. Sometimes those expectations have been with us for so long that we no longer recognise them as choices.
As I've become more aware of my own assumptions, I've found that loving without conditions is not something I can simply decide I've mastered. There are still occasions when I notice myself wanting someone to respond differently or make a choice that seems more sensible to me. The difference is that I'm becoming more willing to question what is happening within me before assuming that something outside me needs to change.
Am I genuinely concerned about what is happening, or am I uncomfortable because someone isn't behaving as I expected? Am I offering support, or am I hoping to influence the outcome? And can I allow someone else the freedom to have their own experience without feeling that I need to manage it for them?
I suspect these are questions I'll continue exploring for the rest of my life.
But one thing my marriage has taught me is that we don't necessarily become closer by doing everything together, agreeing on everything or wanting the same things. Sometimes we become closer when we begin to see one another more clearly and allow the differences that have always been there to be acknowledged.
Perhaps loving without conditions is less about getting everything right and more about becoming aware of the expectations we bring into our relationships.
And allowing the people we love, including ourselves, the freedom to be who they actually are.