Vogue asked if having a boyfriend is embarrassing — so why does it feel that way?

That question stuck with me — and this is where it led.

DISCLAIMER: I originally published this piece on my Substack, and I’m sharing it here exactly as it was. If you want more essays like this the moment they drop, come hang out with me there. 💛

Vogue lately dropped a cultural grenade: “Having a boyfriend is embarrassing.” It perfectly captures the current vibe — the era of glorified situationships, chaotic texting, blurred labels, and the idea that being emotionally unavailable is somehow cooler than being clear.

Fair enough. It’s a real trend. We all feel it.

But while everyone loves to dissect the chaos, almost no one talks about the other side: what it actually means to be in a stable relationship— and why it scares us more than we admit.

I’m not talking about the meme relationship or the soft-launch Instagram kind. I mean the adult, intentional, quiet relationship — the one that, somehow, makes you look less cool just for choosing it.

And that’s exactly where I want to go: a different angle.

Nobody talks about what it actually takes to be in a solid relationship. Because stable love feels almost off-brand for our generation.

Strong women can choose love, too

We get it — women today are operating on a whole different level. We make our own money, build our own careers, travel solo, design lives that don’t need a co-pilot to feel complete. Independence isn’t a buzzword anymore; it’s the baseline. And that’s a massive win.

And with that freedom comes another truth: everyone should get to choose whatever actually feels good for them. Stay single because it’s empowering. Date around because it’s fun. Commit because it feels grounding. Opt out entirely because you just don’t care. There isn’t a “right” lifestyle anymore — just the one that matches your energy.

But here’s the weird part: if we’re all about choice, why is having a boyfriend suddenly treated like the wrong one?

Why is independence celebrated, but a stable relationship — the kind you willingly choose — framed as a step backward? Why does “I’m with someone and it’s good” trigger eye rolls, while chaos gets applause?

It’s almost like we’ve mistaken autonomy for isolation. Like the only way to prove we’re strong is to pretend we don’t want connection — or that choosing someone automatically cancels our power.

But it doesn’t. At all.

So the real question becomes: when did stability turn into the enemy, and why are we so quick to attack women for choosing it?

We only get loud when it’s messy

We’re also strangely unequipped to talk about relationships when they’re actually good. Like—ask me today how things are going with my boyfriend and I’ll hit you with the most anticlimactic update ever: “All good.”

And that’s it. Not because I’m hiding anything. Not because it’s boring. But because stability doesn’t come with a script. It’s quiet. It’s grounded. It doesn’t beg for a plot twist.

Meanwhile, rewind to my past situationships and borderline-tragic romances?

I was basically a traveling conference. I had keynote speeches ready. Panel discussions. Bonus materials. Hour-long voice notes. I could give TED Talks on mixed signals, red flags, emotional whiplash. I had theories, subplots and psychological analysis.

Chaos comes with content. Stability doesn’t.

What I’ve realized is that we’ve trained ourselves to be fluent in dysfunction. We know how to narrate confusion, frustration, disappointment. We know how to turn pain into entertainment, red flags into memes, heartbreak into relatable content.

But when something is healthy? Mutual? Respectful? When someone shows up, listens, communicates, follows through?

We freeze.

We go minimal.

We default to “All good” because we don’t yet know how to talk about something that doesn’t hurt.

Chaos makes noise. Stability makes sense — but we’re still learning how to put that into words.

Learning stability after chaos is the hardest shift to make

A stable relationship isn’t embarrassing — it’s deliberate.

It’s two people choosing each other on purpose, with clarity instead of games, with communication instead of decoding sessions. And honestly? That’s way more complex than any situationship. A situationship lets you hide. A stable relationship does the opposite: it exposes you. It forces you to actually talk, actually listen, actually show who you are when you’re not trying to be mysterious or “chill.”

And let’s be real: finding this kind of connection is difficult.

Not because we’re broken, but because alignment — emotional, personal, practical — is rare. People are busy, guarded, distracted, half-in and half-texting someone else. So when you actually meet a person you can build with? That’s not embarrassing. That’s luck, timing, and intention colliding in a way that doesn’t happen every day.

And even when you do find it, shifting from dating drama to actual stability is its own challenge.

If you’ve been conditioned to think chaos = passion, the first weeks of a healthy relationship can feel almost suspicious. You mistake peace for boredom, emotional safety for “lack of spark,” and consistency for something flat — only because your nervous system hasn’t met stability before.

Stability isn’t the absence of problems — it’s the presence of effort.

It’s knowing you can’t just ghost your way out of discomfort.

It’s dealing with conflict instead of performing detachment.

It’s building something that lasts instead of chasing the dopamine hits of uncertainty.

Situationships are easy because nothing is defined.

A stable relationship is hard because everything is.

There’s accountability, vulnerability, emotional presence — all the stuff the internet loves to avoid and the exact things that make real intimacy possible.

So no, a solid relationship isn’t embarrassing. What’s embarrassing is pretending chaos is depth, just because stability asks more of you.

Why I’m writing this

Because our generation is amazing at talking about chaos — the almosts, the situationships, the hurt-but-make-it-funny moments.

We’re fluent in stories about things that don’t work.

But we’re quieter about the actual relationships.

The grounded ones. The adult ones. The ones that require you to show up, not ghost.

And maybe that’s exactly why they matter.

And just to be clear: this isn’t a critique of the Vogue article and its brilliant author, Chanté Joseph. If anything, she deserves a thank-you. Her original piece cracked open a cultural truth we were tiptoeing around, and all the reacitions and her follow-up response proved how much this topic hits a collective nerve. She started a necessary conversation — one that exposed how charged, complicated, even emotional this shift has become for so many of us.

Vogue asked why having a boyfriend can feel “embarrassing” right now, and they nailed that moment. I’m simply looking at what sits right next to it: why stability feels strange, why we don’t know how to talk about it, and why it might matter more than we think.

Because I genuinely think we’re an incredible generation. Resilient, sharp, creative as hell. We’re out here building lives, careers, identities — in a world way messier than the one we were promised. And still, we keep going. We keep dreaming. We keep reinventing everything we touch.

So why shrink ourselves into chaos?

Why reduce our stories to labels, aesthetics, dos and don’ts?

We’re capable of so much more than performing confusion just to fit the vibe.

Life is long and unpredictable. You’ll have seasons where being alone feels expansive and empowering. And others where connection feels grounding, nourishing, deeply human. Both are valid. Both are beautiful. Both count as “being yourself.”

So maybe the point isn’t choosing a side — single, dating, committed, whatever — but staying open. Letting life surprise you. Letting people surprise you. Letting yourself want things without apologizing for them.

Because we’re not a generation made for limits. And we deserve more than chaos — we deserve the full spectrum.

The ending (that’s not really an ending)

So maybe this whole piece comes down to something simple:

We don’t have to be scared of what’s good for us.

We don’t have to treat stability like it’s cringe, or chaos like it’s personality.

We don’t have to perform detachment just to look cool, or pretend we don’t care to avoid looking soft.

We can want love without losing ourselves.

We can stay single without feeling incomplete.

We can choose connection without sacrificing independence.

We can hold both — freedom and intimacy — without apologizing for either.

No one is asking us to pick a lane forever.

Life isn’t that linear, and we’re not that flat.

All I’m saying is: let’s stop being embarrassed by the things that actually support us.

Let’s stop clapping for chaos like it’s the only option.

Let’s stop acting like caring is uncool.

We’re a generation that’s rewriting everything — work, identity, ambition, relationships, all of it. So maybe it’s time we rewrite this too. Not to glorify being in a relationship. Not to glorify being single. But to finally allow ourselves the right to want what we want — without shame, without noise, without a narrative attached.

Whatever comes next for you — solitude, partnership, something undefined in between — I hope it feels intentional. And I hope it feels like yours.

Because in the end, that’s the only thing that’s never embarrassing.

Your turn.

Where are you in all of this — chaos, freedom, connection, solitude, something in between? What’s the chapter you’re in right now, and how does it feel from the inside?

I’m genuinely curious.

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If this touched something real, I’d love to have you here or on Substack.