If the mystic poet Rumi were alive today and had access to what we know about neuroscience and the endocrine system, I wonder how his poetry would sound. Maybe he would write something like, “Ah, the universe so vast, so endless, yet my small human heart can hold more love than ten universes… or maybe that is just my amygdala lighting up, my dopamine rising as evolution rewards me for connection.”
And what about Shakespeare? What would he have written if he had known about hormones, neural pathways, and the chemistry of longing? Perhaps his sonnets would have mentioned oxytocin and cortisol, or he might have described love not only as a madness of the soul but as a biological storm in the brain.
Still, I think both Rumi and Shakespeare would have reached the same conclusion as modern science: that love, for all its chemistry and structure, remains the greatest mystery. That no scan or theory can measure its depth. That something in us, spiritual, biological, or both, was built to seek union, to feel beauty, and to be moved beyond reason.
Let’s get one thing straight: the body doesn’t know the difference between being in love and being high. At least, not in the beginning.
When we fall for someone, our brains release a flood of chemicals, dopamine, norepinephrine, oxytocin, that feel electric. The heart races. The pupils dilate. Time bends. We replay their texts like sacred scripture. We call it love at first sight, but it’s often dopamine on overdrive.
This doesn’t mean the connection is fake. But it does mean we should pause before calling it sacred.
Dopamine is the same chemical that drives drug addiction. It’s the feeling of reward, anticipation, craving. And in relationships, it makes us chase. Chase the person. Chase the feeling. Chase the fantasy.
Sometimes what we’re really chasing is relief from loneliness, validation, or the soothing familiarity of a dysfunctional pattern from childhood. When we call that love, we set ourselves up for pain.
The chemistry is real. The feelings are real. But real love, the kind that heals, sustains, and deepens, isn’t just a chemical spike. It’s not lust in disguise. And it doesn’t vanish the moment conflict arises or novelty fades.
Here’s how to tell the difference:
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Dopamine says: “This person completes me.”
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Love says: “This person challenges me to grow, and I still choose them.”
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Dopamine says: “I need them to text me back or I’ll spiral.”
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Love says: “I’m grounded in myself, and open to connection.”
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Dopamine says: “This high is everything.”
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Love says: “This calm is everything.”
This doesn’t mean love is boring. But it does mean that love stabilizes while dopamine spikes and crashes. That’s why the beginning of a relationship is not the best indicator of its potential. Infatuation is easy. Integration takes work.
When the dopamine wears off, we meet the real person, and they meet our real self, including the parts we hide. That’s when the work of love begins.
If we’re lucky, the chemicals return in waves, when we hold each other through pain, when we make each other laugh, when we show up fully. But we don’t chase the high anymore. We create something deeper: safety, presence, devotion, freedom.
It’s okay if you fell in love on a dopamine wave. Most of us do. Just don’t confuse the spark for the whole fire.