You know the feeling when you’re really falling for someone? The excitement of seeing them, the buzz that fuels late-night text conversations and impulsive meetups — it’s the period when you’d do anything to feel their skin on yours again.
When I recently reconnected virtually with an old friend of the family after 14 years, it was a surprise to both of us that we soon began spending most of our waking hours texting and speaking on the phone. Then I went to visit him, and the chemistry was off the charts. Within a few weeks, we had even talked about marriage.
Everyone commented on how happy I seemed. And, it was true, I was. But, however happy I felt, I knew that crazy-in-love feeling was due to one thing: chemicals in my brain.
Dopamine is the hormone associated with reward and motivation. Because a hit of dopamine makes us feel good, it motivates us to seek more of it. That’s why falling in love is characterised by constant thoughts about the person. Even just the thought of getting the reward causes the brain to release dopamine. Each event — and the anticipation of the event — feeds the addiction.
When his planned trip to see me got canceled, we rescheduled and counted the unbearably long days until we could meet up next. More calling, more messaging, more planning for the future. He sent me song suggestions for the first wedding dance, was the first to share or comment on my social media posts, sent me flowers and then constantly asked if they’d arrived, and bought my favourite shampoo for my next visit.
When he texted me that he was falling in love with me, he said I didn’t need to say it back. Five minutes later, he messaged to say, “Go on then, say it.” That’s when my spidey senses tingled.
While we had both been drinking that same heady, dopamine cocktail, he was falling-down drunk, while I was nicely buzzed but still in control of myself. As he became increasingly needy, it started to feel like he was addicted to me. Even though I wanted to see him again, I started soberly questioning whether we were truly right for each other, given our conflicting attitudes toward family and money, and the fact he was a lifelong smoker.
And then I remembered an article I’d read that described the behaviour of the brain in love and suggested that the quickest way to get over someone was to go cold turkey for a month. No calls, no texts, no snooping on their social media—nothing that would push the dopamine lever and get you back into the reward-seeking cycle.
I didn’t want to break up, but I decided this was the way to reset from the abnormal — albeit fun — infatuation and give us some space to reflect on whether we were actually a good match. So I suggested we take a 30-day break.
“If we have any chance of building a future together, this is the way to do it,” I said. He reluctantly agreed.
“When he texted me that he was falling in love with me, he said I didn’t need to say it back. Five minutes later, he messaged to say, ‘Go on then, say it.’ That’s when my spidey senses tingled.”
The first few days, he messaged me, sent emails, liked my social media posts and comments, and viewed my profiles multiple times. He also messaged to say he would be traveling near me and asked if he could come and visit. (It was a four-hour drive away.)
To be honest, I was tempted. In the beginning, my hormones were raging. The chemistry between us was still burning as I thought, What harm would it do? I’ll just reset the 30 days afterward; life’s too short for willpower, anyway. But I didn’t give in.
As the month went on, he posted cryptic public messages on his social media — songs with lyrics that represented his thoughts and feelings, photos of places we’d been with the hashtag #missingyou. I kept busy with work and life, and resisted contact even when I was making plans for the summer and needed to know his schedule.
The stages of the 30-day break reminded me of how I felt when I gave up sugar for Lent. At first, it was painfully boring and devoid of pleasure, and I thought about little else. But by the end of the month, when I could finally eat whatever cake or chocolate I wanted, the desire had lifted.
When the big Day of First Contact arrived, he messaged me as soon as he woke up — exactly as I’d expected him to do, because he’d never really broken the cycle. I went about my morning routine before replying because I had work I needed to focus on.
When we did speak that afternoon, I didn’t feel bad or good ― just neutral. He told me he’d missed me and wanted to know if I’d missed him. “I was looking forward to speaking to you,” I said. And I had been. But I hadn’t been #missingyou.
After the end of the break, we made plans to see each other but spoke way less often than before, and he stopped the cryptic posts and constant messaging. By the time I suggested we actually break up, both of us were expecting it and did it amicably with minimal regrets. It was a relatively painless break-up once you took the dopamine out of the equation.
Maybe using the Cold Turkey method isn’t very romantic, but I think it’s reassuring. If I went from talking about marriage to barely shedding a tear while saying goodbye, it was never real in the first place. It was just my brain playing a trick on me.
Now, when I am tempted to reach out to my ex, I remind myself that contacting him would disrupt his Cold Turkey period and potentially fire up the dopamine longing again, and I refrain from texting. If I really need to tell him something, I’ll wait a month.