The Truth About The Honeymoon Phase No One Prepares You For

But what if that assumption is false?

The honeymoon phase, as it’s imagined, is supposed to feel like floating on a pink cloud. Two people carried by certainty, novelty, and desire before real life eventually intervenes. So what does it mean when the beginning isn’t like that at all?

What does it mean when it’s tender and magnetic, but also frustrating? When closeness feels real, yet conflict arrives early. When you’re drawn to someone deeply, but can’t quite settle into the connection. When you feel activated instead of soothed, unsure whether you’re building something meaningful or forcing something fragile.

I’ve been asked this question recently:

If this is the honeymoon phase, is it supposed to be this hard?

“I don’t know,” I said.

And that was the most honest answer I could give.

Because eventually, in every relationship, the chemistry settles. Oxytocin and dopamine fade. Reality reenters. The things that once felt endearing through rose-colored glasses begin to grate. The person who could do no wrong suddenly becomes human.

For some, that shift happens abruptly. One moment you’re infatuated, high on love. The next, a minor moment cracks the illusion, and the perfect image collapses into something far less flattering. For others, it unfolds gradually. The honeymoon lingers, but small fractures appear beneath the surface: mismatched words and actions, promises softened by excuses, accountability delayed or avoided altogether. Trust erodes not through betrayal, but through inconsistency.

And yet, underneath it all, there is still something real.

There is warmth. Care. A connection that feels rare and genuine. When things are good, they are really good. There’s laughter, affection, and an ease that makes the world feel brighter. Moments where defenses fall away and presence replaces analysis. Moments that feel like love.

Sooner or later, every new relationship encounters tension.

We tend to see early dating as binary: either it’s easy and right, or it’s hard and wrong.

We tend to see early dating as binary: either it’s easy and right, or it’s hard and wrong. Either it flows effortlessly, or you should leave before you’re “too invested.” But real connection, especially between two imperfect, sometimes not-so-self-aware adults, is rarely frictionless. Discomfort isn’t always a warning sign. Sometimes, it’s simply the sound of two worlds learning how to coexist.

So how do you tell the difference?

How do you know whether you’re witnessing two people adjusting to each other’s rhythms, or uncovering a fundamental mismatch? What if the beginning is hard not because it’s doomed, but because intimacy requires adaptation?

As we get older, we become more set in our ways. We know what we like, what we don’t, and we’ve carefully designed lives that run smoothly on our own terms. The more comfortable we become, the less tolerant we are of friction. Minor inconveniences suddenly feel like deal-breakers.

And modern culture doesn’t help. We live in a world where algorithms are built to agree with us, validate us, and reflect our opinions back to us. AI, in many ways, offers a perpetual honeymoon: endlessly accommodating, perfectly attuned, never defensive. No human can compete with that. Real people bring complexity, and complexity brings challenge.

Still, not all difficulty is growth. That’s where discernment matters.

There is a difference between early discomfort that leads to understanding and early friction that slowly drains you. Between conversations that feel challenging but constructive, and ones that leave you exhausted, confused, or doubting your own intuition.

I know my own triggers well. When certain patterns emerge, something in me tightens. I feel less able to relax, less able to trust, less able to surrender. And no amount of chemistry can compensate for that. Because attraction, at least to me, isn’t just about spark. It’s about safety and trust. When that’s present, even difficult moments feel manageable. When it’s absent, even the smallest issues become disastrous.

And sometimes, the very intensity of a connection makes the beginning harder. When something feels meaningful, when it touches something deeper than attraction, the stakes rise quickly. You care sooner. You notice more. You react more strongly. The possibility of loss, or of choosing wrong, suddenly feels urgent.

In that sense, difficulty can be a byproduct of intimacy.

What matters, then, is not the absence of problems, but how they’re handled. Still, confusion creeps in. Doubt asks its questions:

Is this friction an opportunity to grow, or a warning sign I’m meant to heed?
Am I practicing patience, or ignoring my intuition?
Is the effort mutual, or am I doing all the work?

One thing is certain: even if the honeymoon phase isn’t perfect, it is revealing.

There is a difference between early discomfort that leads to understanding and early friction that slowly drains you.

It shows you how someone responds when things don’t go smoothly. How they handle conflict and disappointment. How willing they are to reflect, listen, and compromise. How safe you feel bringing your full experience to the table, both the good and the bad.

And it reveals you, too.

Your triggers. Your boundaries. Your patterns around closeness and self-protection. The ways you seek grounding when connection feels destabilizing.

What I believe is that love that’s worth choosing holds up under pressure. It doesn’t just feel good in moments of closeness, it leaves you more expanded. You may adapt, but it never feels like erasing yourself or settling.

So if the honeymoon phase feels hard, it doesn’t automatically mean something is wrong. But it does mean something important is being shown to you. And what’s harder than an honest beginning, even if it’s a challenging one, is ignoring what it’s trying to tell you.

Eventually, the honeymoon always ends. What determines what comes next is a willingness to listen and learn. To stay open instead of defensive. To take responsibility instead of reaching for explanations. To allow yourself to be changed by another person’s experience.

A past lover once told me this:

“The success of a relationship isn’t determined by love, but by how well you can solve problems together.”

And I believe that’s true.

Chemistry may bring two people together, but love alone is never the test. How you move through difficulty together is. Because in the end, that’s the skill that makes love last.