Love is not a meritocracy: Is therapy speak killing our capacity to love?

Is love a reward for good behaviour? In the modern liberal imagination, who we love is a direct reflection of our moral resume. We expect the feminist to love the ally and the kind to love the kind. This is why the public reacts with such visceral disappointment when a ‘good’ person chooses a ‘bad’ one—whether it is a pop star dating a provocateur like Matty Healy or Ruth Bader Ginsburg sharing a profound friendship with Antonin Scalia. 

We treat these connections as a failure of moral perception. However, if we look to the philosophy of Kieran Setia or the psychoanalysis of Jodi Messler Davies, a different truth emerges: love is not a meritocracy. It is a radical, often irrational appreciation of another’s existence that functions entirely outside the lines of good and evil.

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The rise of the clinical shield

‘Therapy speak’—the migration of clinical language from the therapist’s couch to the Instagram infographic, was intended to democratise mental health. Instead, it has often provided a sophisticated vocabulary for people to sometimes simply be self-centred.

The luxury of the moral filter

We often operate under the assumption that who we love reflects who we are. However, from another perspective, love is not inherently tied to morality. We accept that parents have a duty to love their children regardless of their actions, and we admire mentors who stay by ‘problematic’ mentees.

In her paper Why Bad People Can't Be Good Friends, Alexis Elder argues that a person whose loyalty is entirely subordinate to abstract moral rules is often too cold to be a true friend. To be a ‘goody two-shoes’ is to filter every act of warmth through a ledger of worthiness. 

True friendship often requires us to set aside the moral filter — to choose the well-being of the individual over the abstract ‘good’ of the many. Consider the ‘drowning wife’ thought experiment: if ten people are drowning and one of them is your spouse, love requires you to devalue the other nine lives to save the one. Love is, by definition, partial and unfair.

The trauma paradox: Why ‘bad’ feels like home

Psychoanalyst Jodi Messler Davies theorised that children who grow up in abusive households often hold two realities at once. To gain a parent's love, the child must accept the parent's experience of reality (an image of themselves as an awful human being).

As adults, these individuals are trapped. If they find a partner who is actually kind and empathetic, that kindness contrasts against their internal sense of badness. Instead of feeling nourished, they feel shamed because the partner's goodness challenges their survival-based reality. 

As one of Davies' patients whispered: “The only time I feel good is when I find the evil parts of other people... it makes me feel less alone.” 

Love as a way of being

Philosophers like David Velleman and Kieran Setia suggest that every person has inherent value simply by existing as a rational, autonomous being. Under this framework, you can love a murderer without defending their actions. You can love someone and plan to never see them again. 

Contrast this with the ‘love-is-as-love-does’ view popularised by bell hooks. In this camp, love is defined by actions: care, trust, and commitment. If a partner is abusive, the relationship lacks the fundamental ingredients of love. While hooks' view provides a beautiful ideal, it often fails to account for a ‘non-ideal’ world. 

Peace is often the byproduct of conflict resolved, not conflict avoided. Love is not a moral background check; it is the risky, vulnerable act of letting down our defenses for someone else. As long as we use therapy as a suit of armour, we may stay safe, but we will never be truly moved.

Please note: This is in no way an advice column.