When Attraction Takes Time but Hits Like a Storm
Who I Am & Why This Matters
For the longest time, I thought something was fundamentally wrong with me when it came to relationships. Perhaps there’s still a lot to unpack, but coming across this label caught my attention. Everyone around me seemed to fall in love effortlessly, feel attraction naturally and seek out relationships with ease—whether with a specific person or just for the sake of connection. Meanwhile, it wasn’t that I felt nothing toward my peers—I did experience limerence and even “pretended” to have crushes on people. However, coming from an anti-LGBTQ+ country, I never allowed myself to explore those feelings—or the absence of them. Some of them I assumed were normal, while others I chalked up to mental illness—because it was more acceptable to believe you had psychological distress than to consider that you might just be gay or on the a-spectrum. Being a constantly relocating, closeted sapphic with barely any social life only reinforced the idea that something was wrong with me and deepened the void. For years, I believed I was broken and still do occasionally.
It wasn’t until I was around 23 that I finally started to understand myself. I found fictional fantasy interesting and detached enough to explore safely, but even that never led to any real self-awareness. Things that seem so obvious now were completely invisible to me then due to such a lack of awareness in our society. I had no interest in dating and no internal drive to search for a partner which left me feeling like an alien. Yet, at the same time, I wanted love—I wanted to love and be loved—but it always felt like I was reaching for something I couldn’t grasp or was not deserving of. I’ve also met people who do not seek relationships or feel any desire to be attracted to others—and they are completely content with that. Even within the asexual-aromantic community, I sometimes feel like I don’t fully belong, because many seemed at peace with their lack of attraction, while I constantly felt like something was missing and pulling me. I wanted that connection, craved it even, but no matter how hard I tried to ‘fix’ myself or ‘fake it till I made it,’ it just never worked. Not to mention, a-spectrum topics were never discussed when I was growing up and only slightly so when I was coming out a few years ago.
I feel like a newborn deer learning to walk—awkward, unsteady and completely out of place—as I try to navigate the experiences most people figure out and learn in their teens. Now, in my late 20s, I’m just starting to explore attraction, relationships and intimacy in a way that actually makes sense for me. It is both overwhelming and surreal to be so new to something that feels so fundamental to others, while also juggling the struggles of adulthood. These experiences—the confusion, the isolation, the deep longing for connection without knowing how to reach it—are rarely talked about, but they need to be. We need more conversations about what it means to experience attraction differently and I hope this piece can be a part of that discussion.
What is Demisexuality & Demiromanticism
I feel it’s important to explain what these terms stand for and why they matter. While they’ve been part of queer vocabulary for some time, they’re not widely understood. These concepts have even made their way into psychological research, but unfortunately, the understanding is still limited, often being compared to mental health disorders listed in the DSM-V. There’s this lingering idea of a “need to be cured,” something I ironically encountered with a therapist, where it was dismissed as just a result of trauma. While many queer people have indeed experienced trauma from being marginalized, oppressed or silenced, it doesn’t automatically mean that their orientation or identity is rooted in that trauma.
At its core, demisexuality represents the midpoint of the asexual spectrum, much like how demiromanticism lies at the center of the aromantic spectrum. Etymologically, the root “demi” derives from the Latin “dimidius,” meaning “half” or “partial.” It is possible to identify as both demisexual and demiromantic or to hold one of these labels while identifying elsewhere on the spectrum for the other. These spectrums range from 100% attraction (allosexual and alloromantic) to 0% attraction (asexual and aromantic), and together they form the “a-spectrum,” an umbrella term commonly used to describe this continuum. Even for individuals who do not identify as LGBTQ+, they still fall somewhere on these spectrums, albeit typically at the higher end, which is generally more socially accepted. As I personally identify as both demisexual and demiromantic, I often shorten the label to “demi,” which, of course, invites the occasional stereotypical Demi Lovato joke.
The Challenges of Dating as a Demi Individual
The Modern Dating
For some, the digitalization of meeting people—especially through dating apps—has been a welcome relief, while for others, it feels like an impractical nightmare. Many dating apps prioritize brevity, with users making snap judgments based on short bios and curated photos. However, demi individuals don’t operate this way—we rely on personality, shared interests and meaningful conversations to gauge compatibility and enable attraction, rather than just the looks or small talk. Because of this, demi people are often misunderstood as being picky, repressed, or simply “waiting for the right one.” But for us, it’s not a matter of choice; it’s how attraction fundamentally works. While attraction can be complex and fluid for everyone, for demi individuals, it feels more like an inherent wiring that can’t simply be overridden. I heard some refer to it as “you feel fully asexual/aromantic until you are not”, that being said, you sort of drift back to it once the deep emotional connection is lost with that specific person.
Most people assume attraction is instant—you see someone and immediately feel drawn to them, whether sexually or romantically. This is what fuels concepts like celebrity crushes or finding strangers on the street attractive at first glance. But even within this, people often don’t agree on what kind of attraction they’re actually experiencing. Attraction isn’t just romantic or sexual—it can also be aesthetic, intellectual, sensual, or platonic, and different people experience these in varying ways. While there is some overlap between demi experiences and what society considers “normal,” the key distinction is the necessity of a strong emotional bond. As Psychology Today explains, “Demisexuals need to be close to a potential partner; they need the element of friendship in order to access their sexual desire.” Without that connection, attraction simply doesn’t happen, making things like hookup culture feel foreign and difficult to relate to.
Navigating attraction as a demi individual can feel like being on an entirely different timeline—too late for some, too early for others, and completely unexpected for the rest. There’s also the challenge of external expectations: someone may express interest in you based on appearance, but without knowing them, their advances might feel uncomfortable. Even if you want to get to know them, they may not have the patience to wait and see if attraction develops. If you initially reject someone due to a lack of emotional connection, they might assume you’ll never be interested and by the time you do develop feelings, they may have already moved on, leaving things awkward and frustrating once again.
Emotional Connection and the Taboo
For demi people, attraction isn’t random—it’s built and the only realistic way to build that connection is through friendship. However, society has a complicated relationship with ‘falling for friends.’ It’s not uncommon to go from friends to lovers, of course, but often enough it is perceived as a bit of a taboo where you inevitably ruin the friendship. It’s hard to help it as well even if you do want to preserve the friendship due to this starvation for intimacy and romantic closeness you develop over time. It feels like a strong pull and hope to finally feel more whole and “normal”. So far I had to learn that you have to learn to control your feelings, though I still feel that it is not an even field where others can move on much easier on other people if needed. As a demiromantic, your feelings aren’t just random crushes—they are deep-rooted attachments formed through meaningful emotional bonds. If the connection fades, so will your feelings.
Strong connection is something I need in order to feel anything at all. The idea of fleeting infatuation or casual dating doesn’t resonate with me because attraction isn’t a switch I can flip. It grows slowly, quietly, and only when trust, chemistry and understanding are in place. This means that when I do fall for someone, it’s not surface-level. It’s deep. It’s consuming. It’s overwhelming for all parties involved. It’s a bond that feels like a rare and fragile thing—because, in many ways, it is.
But with this depth of connection also comes struggle. When my heart latches onto someone, it’s not easy to let go. If the relationship is uncertain, I live in emotional limbo—unable to move forward, unable to move on. The fear of losing the connection is sometimes stronger than the pain of unrequited love itself. I’ve caught myself overthinking, replaying interactions, and trying to predict every possible outcome just to feel some sense of control. But love and connection don’t work that way. They aren’t equations to solve; they’re experiences to live.
One of the hardest lessons I’ve had to learn is that I can’t force connection to be mutual. Just because I develop feelings for someone doesn’t mean they will do the same. And even if they care for me, it doesn’t mean they can fulfill the role I want them to. I’ve struggled with accepting that someone can value me deeply platonically but not romantically. It’s painful—knowing that I can be seen, appreciated, even adored, yet not in fully mutual ways. At the same time, being demi has also given me a kind of emotional depth that I cherish. When I do connect with someone, it’s genuine. It’s not based on shallow attraction or fleeting excitement—it’s real, built on something solid. I’ve learned to appreciate the beauty of slow-growing love, the kind that isn’t rushed but nurtured over time. And while that means I may experience more heartbreak when things don’t work out, it also means that when love does come, it’s something truly worth holding onto.
Wrapping Up
With all that being said, I also learned that the strongest connection I will ever have is the one with myself. If my self-worth is entirely dependent on external validation—on whether someone loves me back—then I will always be at the mercy of other people’s choices. Learning to love and accept myself, independent of others, is still a work in progress. But I know that until I can see my own worth clearly, I will always struggle with believing I deserve the kind of love I seek. Being a demi individual is both a gift and a challenge. It means moving through the world differently, feeling deeply, and sometimes struggling in a society that values speed over depth. But at the end of the day, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Because even though my heart takes longer to open, when it does—it’s real. And that, to me, is worth everything.