The Real Reason You're Drawn to People Who Don't Choose You

I used to be uncomfortable with this world that's wired for instant gratification, validation, and chasing the rush of something new—until I realized maybe I'm not all that different. Sometimes I catch myself wondering: Am I actually falling for this person… or is my nervous system just reacting in ways that are supposed to feel like love? And honestly, it's a little scary.

When I look back at my relationships, I can't help but wonder when real connection got blurred with all sorts of other feelings—attraction, anxiety, familiarity, even just the thrill of being wanted. There's so much that can feel like love, it's hard to know what's genuine and what's my brain overcomplicating things. As a therapist, I see myself in clients all the time, asking the same messy questions, being drawn to the same patterns, falling for people in our own messy ways. It often takes me back to the ways I've mistaken chemistry for connection.

Are We Falling for the Person or the Performance?

As a hopeless romantic, I've been the victim of play-acting what I feel should look like love. I'd slip into the role of the "perfect girlfriend" or "perfect partner" because I thought that's what the moment required. I'd say "I miss you" or "I love this about you" because this is how relationships are supposed to sound—not because I always meant it deeply.

The danger is that I didn't actually fall for the person in front of me, but instead for their performance of love, and our own. And because we crave connection so much, we're willing to accept the illusion.

What If We're Not Falling for Them—But for What They Give Us?

At times, I've been drawn to what someone lights up in me. The version of myself they bring out. They've sometimes played the role of a caregiver or protector that I needed at that time. Maybe they made me feel chosen in a way I'd been craving.

The boy who brought out the child in me at a time when I couldn't be one back home became my definition of love. But in reality, all I felt was safe. All I needed was softness and a space to be myself. Growing up without too many friends created an emptiness in me that I was yearning to fill. He filled this void. Having a romantic relationship met my need to have someone who chose me every day finally. Someone who wouldn't leave me.

The danger? I wasn't falling for them. I fell for the need being fulfilled and the hope of the life I wanted.

Are We Seeing Them—Or Just the Story We Wrote?

I've realized our brains are suckers for a good story. Once they decide this could be love, they start collecting evidence to back it up through selective attention. We ignore or justify the rest. We rationalize it all because we're already invested in the story we've built in our heads.

It gets way worse for someone like me who's grown up on Bollywood movies. When someone does something I've grown up blushing over, or in any way resembles my idea of romance, I start cherry-picking only the good from the bad. It's projection: turning the other person into a screen for our movie. We don't see them as they are; we see who we want them to be. We piece together a version of them that fits our needs, our patterns, or maybe even the parts of us that still need healing.

Most of the time, we're not falling for them. We're falling for the idea of them. And when the real person shows up—messy and human and nothing like the role we cast them in—we end up disappointed or confused.

Whenever I catch myself spiraling into that fantasy, I ask: If this person never changed, would I still want to be here? It's a small reality check. A reminder to see the person in front of me—not the character my brain wrote into the story.

Why Does Chaos Feel Like Connection?

Something I've noticed in my sessions as a therapist is that we're drawn to chaos. It might come down to how we were first introduced to connection. If our earliest experiences were marked by unpredictable emotions and inconsistent love, our brains learn that instability and intimacy go hand in hand. As adults, this may mean we're actually drawn to partners who are hot and cold, emotionally unavailable, or otherwise unpredictable. Our nervous system mistakes this intensity for the familiar feeling of excitement and connection, even if it's stressful or unhealthy.

It took some work with a client who'd been struggling to find the "right" partner to uncover how much of her choices were tied to old wounds with her mother. She realized that, subtly, she was trying to prove her mother's constant criticism wrong by finding a man who made her feel good. If she could win over someone who seemed distant, out of reach, or even unkind to her, it felt like redemption—almost like saying, "See, I am worthy after all."

But the cost was that she kept gravitating toward men who couldn't give her the kind of love and security she truly needed. The chase was more about rewriting a painful story from her past with a better ending. And while that made sense emotionally, it also kept her stuck in a cycle of proving herself rather than healthily experiencing love.

When you grow up with parents who made love feel like something to be earned, who criticized you or made you feel like you needed to be worthy of care, people who recreate this pattern seem familiar. Almost like home. And your brain starts whispering, This is my chance to finally win the love I didn't get before. It's not romance—it's you trying to recreate a pattern of interaction in an attempt to win what you weren't given previously.

Our partners are a reflection of the beliefs we have about ourselves and have the power to reinforce them. This is why a client's self-image, beliefs they hold about their worth, and self-esteem are brought to awareness in therapy.

I remember a client once sharing something powerful that stayed with me. He said that his girlfriend allowed him to be less angry with his parents for not being able to provide what he needed. He received the softness he'd been craving from his parents, which allowed him to be kinder to himself.

This made me think about how—sometimes—our partners are exactly what we wanted our parents to be. Contrastingly, sometimes we also want them because they represent the opposite of everything we resented about our parents.

Why Are We Addicted to Unpredictability?

Often, what comes up in therapy is our addiction to unpredictability. Just like casino machines, where we don't win every time, we're still hoping for the chance that we may. When someone showers you with attention one day and goes silent the next, your brain becomes a gambler at the slot machine: Maybe this time I'll get the jackpot. I have to admit I'll be checking my phone incessantly or refreshing my DMs. That one text feels like a sign of connection to me, while its unpredictability feels like intensity. It's just my nervous system chasing crumbs and hoping for a reward.

This may be a sign of also enjoying the chase. Dopamine loves pursuit, and so we confuse the thrill with love. Often, clients perceive someone emotionally unavailable as a rare collectible—that which is hard to get must be worth it. This leads to the person who is aloof, inconsistent, or too busy suddenly feeling like a prize. This can get scary when we automatically imagine them to be better than us, and that's why they may not want us.

That's not chemistry. That's scarcity doing a little scam on your heart.

Here's a tough one: sometimes clients go after people they know they can't have. The dating history of one of my clients is someone who's married, perpetually unavailable, and living three time zones away. Turns out, being with either of these people allowed her to avoid the actual vulnerability of being in a real, messy, everyday relationship. Her fears of facing loss or relying on someone were safe since intimacy never got real.

Are We Just Chasing the Opposite of Our Ex?

Another observation I've made is that I find myself constantly falling for the classic "opposite of my ex" syndrome. Every time I see traits in someone that I wanted in my ex—or vice versa—it lights a bulb within. The exact opposite of a toxic trait I hated seems like bliss, without being able to objectively assess whether this person is right for me or not.

When we've been deprived of what we've been wanting for a long stretch, even the simplest gestures can feel like intimacy. But relief is not the same as love. It's recency bias—my attraction to someone is based on my most recent experiences.

What Does This All Mean for How We Choose?

Amongst all these intricacies and experiences, what I've arrived at personally is the uncomfortable realization that I've gone after people who don't choose me fully because, deep down, I didn't choose myself fully either. I did believe that what I was asking for was too much for a long time, and this belief that I'm going to eventually be left made me interpret every half-baked compliment or delayed text reply as gold.

But it's not love. It's an old narrative reinforcing itself, keeping me stuck in the same exhausting loop.

Love—or what we mistake for it—is rarely about the person in front of us. It's about history, patterns, old wounds, and the stories our brains secretly keep replaying. I'm still figuring out what exactly I'm drawn to: who they are, how they make me feel, or the potential I hope they'll grow into. While doing this, I've learned to slow down enough to notice the patterns I've kept going, the stories I've been telling myself, and the roles I keep playing.