Lately, I’ve found myself revisiting old versions of me. Not out of longing, but out of curiosity, trying to understand the quiet transformations I’ve undergone in the name of love. When I look back at my past relationships, I notice something strange and slightly unsettling: I don’t think I ever just was in a relationship. I think I performed, tailored, and customized.

I dated a single dad once, and without even thinking, I submerged myself into the world of parenting. I devoured every book on children’s psychology, attachment theory, tantrum management, you name it. I wasn’t a mother, not even close, but somehow I found myself studying like I was preparing for a final exam in emotional parenting. I wanted to show up fully. I wanted to be seen as someone who could handle it, who got it.

Then came the partner who was obsessed with techno. I’ve never liked techno. The bass, the repetition, the headache it gave me, none of it appealed to me. And yet, there I was with notifications turned on for new track releases, sending him links to obscure Berlin DJs, pretending to understand the difference between house and deep house. It became a shared language so we could have something to connect over, even if I had to translate myself into a genre I didn’t quite understand.

There was the intellectual, the one who quoted philosophers over lunch and turned everything into debate. With him, I stayed up at night reading articles I barely understood and trying to form opinions about geopolitics and critical theory. I wasn’t interested in half of it, but I wanted to keep up. I didn’t want to feel small in his world, so I built a version of myself that looked like it belonged next to him, even if that version was straining to appear “sophisticated.”

Another partner was a homebody who adored takeaway, long Netflix marathons, and lazy weekends indoors. I adapted, again. I cancelled plans. I stopped taking walks. I ordered more than I cooked. Slowly, I gained weight, not just physically, but emotionally, carrying the heaviness of stillness that didn’t feel like my own. I was bored, stuck, and unsure of who I was when I wasn’t mirroring someone else’s rhythm.

Then there was the sweet one who loved anime and Studio Ghibli films. That one, didn’t feel like much of a compromise. I ended up genuinely falling in love with Ghibli too. Not all change is bad. Not all adaptation is self-betrayal. But even the good ones make you ask: where do you end and where does they begin?

And I can’t forget the stoner who loved space cakes and chill afternoons. I started researching weed strains, baking with edibles, trying to create something fun just because it lit up his face. Again, not because I was asked to. But because I thought love was doing whatever it took to make the other person feel understood. Even if it meant bending so far that I’d lose track of my own outline.

What I’m realizing now, slowly, tenderly, with a bit of embarrassment, is that I wasn’t just trying to connect. I was morphing. Into versions of myself that felt more appealing, more compatible, more worthy.

We talk so much about the importance of loving ourselves first, about not changing for anyone, about staying true to who we are. But in practice, it’s messier than that. Because whether we like it or not, we do change. Love transforms us. And some of that transformation is beautiful. But some of it… is simply a slow erasure.

So where do we draw the line? When does genuine evolution cross over into self-abandonment? At what point do we stop and realize that we’ve contorted so much that we can’t recognize ourselves anymore?

Some of the changes I’ve gone through were gifts. I still love Ghibli. I still know more about emotional development in kids than I ever expected to. But other changes left me feeling hollow. Performative. Disconnected from the person I was before I tried to fit into someone else’s life.

There’s no easy answer. Yes to stretching a bit for someone. Yes to exploring new interests, trying new things, and learning through love. and No when one feels that love is costing them their identity. And if it does, maybe it’s not the kind of love that was meant to stay.