I was doom-scrolling the other night—past reels of morning routines, pet raccoons, aesthetic fridge restocks—when a post dropped the words *relationship anarchy* into my feed like a little pocket grenade. The phrase hit with that weird magnetic pull, the kind that makes your stomach flutter and your brain whisper, “Wait, go back. That felt like something.” So I did. I went back. I didn’t just rewatch the post. I fell into a rabbit hole shaped like raw, unfiltered connection.

I’d heard the term tossed around before, usually couched in long-winded think pieces about non-monogamy, queer identity, dismantling capitalism through hugging your friends more aggressively (I’m kidding—but not really). But this time, it sunk its teeth in. Not because it was loud or revolutionary. But because it felt… kind. And kind is not the default setting when you’ve spent your life trying to force relationships into boxes that never quite fit.

The idea, if I have to distill it—which feels counterintuitive to the whole concept—is that relationship anarchy throws out the map entirely. No rules. No hierarchy. No default assumptions. You build every connection from the ground up, with the materials unique to the people involved. That means no scripts. No automatic priority placed on romantic partners over best friends or roommates or that one person you send dog memes to every morning. It’s not just about who you sleep with—it’s about how you design your life around intimacy, care, and trust. And how you *don’t* design it around obligation, tradition, or what looks good in an Instagram caption.

I grew up with the escalator view of relationships. You know the drill—crush, date, make it exclusive, fall in love, move in, get married, maybe kids, probably a mortgage, cue matching retirement hoodies. It’s the cultural blueprint we’re spoon-fed from kindergarten onward. Valentines in tiny envelopes. Rom-coms with the same three plot points. Aunties asking when you’ll “settle down.” And I tried. I really did. But the truth? It felt suffocating. Like I was wearing someone else’s coat, three sizes too small, in a snowstorm made of unmet expectations.

Relationship anarchy says you can opt out of the coat entirely. Hell, it says you can knit your own out of moss and thrifted flannel and the occasional text that says “Thinking about you. No need to reply.” I love that. I need that. Because my capacity for intimacy isn’t linear, and it sure as hell doesn’t slot neatly into one kind of dynamic. I’ve loved people platonically with a depth that burned holes in me. I’ve been in romantic relationships where the care felt transactional. I’ve had friends who knew my soul better than anyone I’ve dated. So, who decided which connections count more? And why did I agree to it?

There’s something deeply rebellious, but also deeply soft, in saying every relationship is its own planet. Its own weather system. Some are thunderstorms and tangled sheets. Others are quiet gardens and decade-long check-ins. You don’t rank them. You tend to them. You listen to them. You let them morph. You drop expectations at the door, and you ask instead: “What feels good for *us*?” Not “what should we be?” Not “what will make sense to others?” Just “what feels like home in this moment?”

Now, I won’t pretend this idea is easy. It’s messy. It requires communication that borders on brutal honesty. It asks you to confront your jealousy, your attachment wounds, your inherited scripts. It’s not chaos in the “everyone fends for themselves” kind of way. It’s chaos like jazz—structure thrown to the wind, but somehow still making music if you stay present. As many of you know since I give posts on kink that I am into BDSM. This really fits into the communication needed there and it has never made sense to me why this didn’t go into other areas of life. I am neurodivergent and embrace the chaos more and more every single day. This means I think and see things differently to make it really simple, I don’t follow the herd I hunt with the pack for who I am with each person not to mask but where we get along, what topics always end up heated etc so if we already do this in some relationships why not all of them? We should be able to be who we are with anyone in our lives otherwise why waste that time with someone you have to pretend around? If I do not have a why I will hunt it down and even if it takes years I will figure it out. This one though just kinda dropped into my lap.

I don’t think it’s something you arrive at in one conversation or one blog post or one revelatory Instagram scroll. It’s an unfolding. A shedding. A reimagining. I’m not claiming I live by it completely—but the concept has cracked open a door I didn’t know was locked. It’s given me permission to love expansively, without guilt. To let go of the hierarchy. To celebrate the people in my life who show up in all kinds of dazzling, unconventional ways. To be the kind of friend who gets invited to weddings and breakups and midnight walks through bad decisions. To allow silence between us without assuming abandonment.

So maybe this is me saying: here’s a new lens. Try it on. See how it distorts and clarifies. Maybe it’ll terrify you. Maybe it’ll feel like relief. Maybe it’s not your thing at all. That’s fine too. But if you’ve ever felt like your relationships were something you had to perform—or if love has ever felt like a race with a finish line you never agreed to—this might be the whisper you didn’t know you needed. Well maybe not maybe persay it is a different view point and since we are all learning all the time why should make things definitive? Makes zero sense and just makes me wonder at who came up with this boxes all the damn time.

If it resonated, welcome to the club with no rules. The door’s open. Come in. Stay as long as you like.