It is early February, when, once again, we are instructed to feel romantic. Apparently, we must perform love properly and demonstrate it with flowers, cards, reservations and precious stones. And if we don’t, because we are single, ambivalent, grieving, broke, tired or uninterested, I believe we are invited to feel that something is missing, not just from our lives, but from us: we are obviously lacking something – something important!
Valentine’s Day did not begin like this. It was not designed for couples who already live together and share a dishwasher. Historically, it was a tentative, anonymous affair: a verse or a card slipped to someone you admired from a distance, a low-stakes signal of interest rather than a public audit of devotion. From the 15th until the 20th century it was for potential lovers rather than established ones. You could send a card without signing your name. You could express interest without commitment. And, if you got one, it was to send your heart into a flutter: somebody loves me! But who could it be? I do like the old joke about the young man who had received a Valentine’s card every year with no idea who it was from, making him feel handsome and lovable, then one year the cards just stopped arriving. He was very upset: “First my grandmother dies, now this!” Now, with Valentines being more for established couples, this joke no longer works. I’d ban modern-day Vally-D-Day for that alone.
Somewhere along the way, that gentler idea was lost. What began as an experiment in courage has become an obligation; and, worse, what was once optional is now compulsory. Commercialism did what it always does: it widened the brief, raised the stakes and attached a price tag. Valentine’s Day is no longer about saying “I fancy you”; it is about demonstrating that you love correctly, with receipts.
The result is a day that has the potential to disappoint almost everyone. Couples feel pressure to perform a level of romance that bears little resemblance to daily life. Single people are reminded that they are outside the story. Even those in happy relationships can find themselves negotiating expectations they never consciously agreed to. What are we doing? A card? A present? A meal? How much is enough to count? Love, which is usually sustained through attention, kindness and repair, is temporarily reduced to logistics.
Commercial Valentine’s Day works by activating an old vulnerability. It suggests that worth must be demonstrated, that affection is something we must prove through visible effort. If we grew up feeling that love depended upon us being “good” and approval arrived when we pleased, behaved well or performed, this message lands easily upon us. I reckon the button Valentine’s Day presses is this: do this properly and you are safe; get it wrong and you have failed. The day becomes less about connection and more about anxiety management. Did I do enough? Did I spend enough? Did I remember?
And if you are single, the message is blunter. There is a party happening and you are not invited. The cultural narrative insists that romantic partnership is the main event, the proof of having got life right. Valentine’s Day amplifies that idea, framing singleness not as a neutral state but as a problem briefly spotlighted in pink and red. This is not accidental. Valentine’s Day is an extraordinarily efficient sales mechanism. It manufactures urgency (“one day only”), scarcity (“book now”), and inadequacy (“is this enough?”). It monetises insecurity on all sides. You can buy flowers to demonstrate feeling and chocolate to compensate for emotional reticence. Jewellery stands in for reassurance. None of this is about love. It is about soothing fear: fear of not being chosen, not being enough, not being appreciated.
The day becomes less about connection and more about anxiety management. Did I do enough? Did I spend enough? Did I remember?
Real intimacy is not seasonal and doesn’t peak on command. It grows through repetition more than spectacle, through small, often invisible, acts: listening properly, putting the bins out, showing up when it’s inconvenient, watching their favourite TV programme not yours, apologising without being pushed, looking out for each other, sharing private jokes, being present with each other, giving a foot rub when you’d rather have a bath. These things do not photograph well. They do not come with a receipt. They cannot be condensed into red roses and outsourced to a restaurant.
There are, broadly speaking, two kinds of romance. The first is performative. It relies on display, expenditure and comparison. It asks: how does this look? The second is relational. It asks: how does this feel? Performative romance is loud and fleeting. Relational romance is quieter and cumulative. Valentine’s Day privileges the first while pretending to celebrate the second.
This does not mean that gifts, cards or dinners are bad things. They can be lovely when freely chosen. The problem is coercion disguised as tradition. Romance loses its meaning when it becomes compulsory. Love doesn’t thrive under assessment.
Perhaps the most corrosive aspect of Valentine’s Day is not that it costs money, but that it narrows our understanding of love itself. It elevates one form, romantic coupling, above all others. Friendship, community, family, creativity and self-trust are not supporting acts or consolation prizes; they are forms of love in their own right, foundational to how most of us survive and flourish.
So maybe the problem with Valentine’s Day is not that it is trivial, but that it is overconfident. It assumes too much about what love looks like, how it should be expressed, and who gets to count as having it.
Love does not need an annual inspection. It does not need to be proved on cue. It is allowed to be ordinary, inconsistent, imperfect, and still real. And if you are single, you are not participating in a commercial ritual that confuses consumption with connection: phew, what a relief.
Valentine’s Day needs shrinking back to what it once was: optional, tentative, and low-pressure. Or, failing that, it needs ignoring. Love will continue perfectly well without it.
Oh, and 14 February is my wedding anniversary. Happy anniversary, darling – 34 years and we still haven’t run out of things to say, although we have got to the end of Netflix.