The Third Way. Part 2.
In this part, I discuss breakups and relationships from the viewpoints of existentialism, anarchism and Buddhism. I also offer you the Third Way. It happened to be the main idea along the way.
Freedom
Plato’s “Symposium” tells a legend that people were once creatures with two faces, four legs, and arms, but one day Zeus got angry with them and split them all in half. That’s why, when we find a romantic partner, it feels as we’ve found our other half.
If the search for love is the search for The One who completes us, it follows that breakups are the result of our mistakes, our personal failure. We keep looking for The One to complement us, that is, to fulfill all the functions traditionally assigned to this role: providing emotional and psychological support, sharing financial and everyday responsibilities, sharing the role of parent for a child or a pet, being a sexual partner, being the best friend, sharing hobbies, etc. When I think about the multitude of roles, I ask myself whether that is too much to demand of a single person. If we place so many expectations on them, it’s understandable why a breakup can feel like a failure. Could it be different?
At first I thought I would finish the essay with the theme of existential post-breakup dread. Yet the topic of breakups, love, and related philosophical concepts captivated me. I spent a long time searching for that thing that always protruded and felt uncomfortable in the discourse about the healing journey. I can’t limit myself to searching for new ways to live after breakups. My thoughts swirl around the intersection of existentialism, Buddhism, and anarchism. All of them speak of radical freedom, both internal and external. On the fifth day of working on the essay, I realize that it is about Kierkegaard’s religious choice, about unconditional love. If we renounce our Self, if we accept the uncontrollable nature of the world, perhaps breakups would not exist as such? But let’s take it one step at a time.
Existentialism
Skye C Cleary mentions Max Stirner, who is best known as a theorist of anarchism, but is also regarded as one of the fathers of existentialism. For Stirner, it is essential to reject both the external obligations that society imposes on us and to fight against our inner passions: greed, avarice, and obsessions. For Stirner, love is a choice, including the choice of roles that people play in our lives. We are obliged to make this choice; we have no other option.
Existentialism is described through the necessity of encountering the Real, which frightens us. The only way to overcome this fear is to look it straight in the face. “Existence precedes essence,” says Sartre; our actions determine who we are, and we are free to choose them. There are no predetermined postulates for breakups, no comforting formulas, no universal rules. No one will lead us by the hand on a tour of life. We are radically free; this is both our gift and our burden. This line of thought encourages us to reject culturally conditioned patterns of behavior and think independently. But existentialism is imbued with an active denial of everything. Is that why we are all a little existentialist in our teenage years? In my opinion, the problem is that this rebellion rarely generates the conditions for change: it is too nihilistic. Is that why we often outgrow it? Values change, meanings emerge, and it is somehow uncomfortable to remain at the extreme point of denial. Moreover, denial becomes impossible when you witness wars and genocides.
Anarchism
From an anarchist perspective, the main obstacle to an ideal society is hierarchy, and our conception of it as a natural social order. An important anarchist practice is building communities without top‑down control, without traditional roles, without gender stereotypes, not excluding, of course, non-traditional romantic relationships.1 When I first became interested in anarchist ideas, I read a story about Bakunin, how his wife left him for another man, returned with two children, then disappeared again for two years and came back with another child from the same man she had left him for the first time. Bakunin took her back each time and raised her children as his own. This made a deep impression on me. The idea that one can love so unselfishly still seems far more radical to me than the fight against abstract capitalism or inequality. It takes a great deal of courage to act meaningfully in the everyday life, rejecting what society has imposed on us and following where our hearts lead us, respecting and accepting decisions and actions of others, not behaving like an owner, “squeezing the slave out of yourself every day.”
I rarely discussed these ideas with my lovers. I was always afraid of being misunderstood. Later, I came across the term “relationship anarchy,” which suggests that interpersonal relationships can (and ideally should) be built according to the patterns people desire. Such a banal idea, yet absolutely radical in its simplicity. You may live together or not, plan a future together or not, have sex or not, support each other emotionally or not. It’s such a broad range of possibilities that we often project onto The One, and we often forget that our friends already play some of these roles. Consequently, if there is no The One, then the idea of the supremacy of romantic relationships is also criticized within this concept. You can have a romantic partner, but still make plans for the future with friends, or have sex with a third person, live with a fourth, and raise children with a fifth. Perhaps in this paradigm, there is less room for breakups, but more opportunities to transform relationships into something else?
When I look for material for the essay, I now deliberately read posts and articles by people who practice this lifestyle. It moves me deeply. This is what I find lacking when we talk about the healing journey: the failed search for The One, the loss, the pain of loss, healing, and new relationships in which the same things are expected. But why do we have these expectations in the first place? It’s a cultural norm, but no one is stopping us from rethinking them. I want to rethink them. I want to speak about my love without being in a specific romantic relationship. I want to plan and share the care of my dog with L., even though he is my “ex.” I just want to do what feels right, without looking back at the idea that “friends don’t sleep with each other,” “exes don’t live together,” and so on. I no longer feel as alone in this experience. It feels wonderful.
Buddhism
Through my teenage fascination with existentialism, I arrived at anarchist ideas at twenty‑two. Now, six years later, Buddhism has captured me. It doesn’t surprise me: all these philosophies are based on the idea of radical freedom. Perhaps this is what defines me?
How do these ideas flow from one to another? While in popular culture we observe the cult of romantic love and its elevation to a concept that defines us as individuals, all three philosophies reject the unconditional acceptance of that cult, each for a different reason. Existentialism might note that we must define romantic love for ourselves, that we are obliged to make this choice, to reject cultural narratives, and that through this choice we define ourselves. Anarchism would reject this idea for a different reason: the primacy of romantic love over other types and varieties of love must be reconsidered because it is a social construct imposed on us from above, unconsciously, ideologically. What would a Buddhist say? Indeed, the existential idea that nothing initially defines us is a good one. Of course, we are obliged to make this choice, but there is a caveat: we must not turn this choice into something that defines us, because in reality there is no permanent Self, everything changes. If we choose romantic love and cling tightly to the identity of a romantic partner, which will later change, it will lead us to suffering. Also, Buddhism would not draw nihilistic conclusions about the world. The Buddha’s teaching is a teaching of the Middle Way. If we elevate any idea to an absolute, it will bring suffering, and on the contrary, we actively deny that idea, it will just as surely lead us to unhappiness, to the inability to rejoice and enjoy. We need something in between, where we do not deny joy and heartfelt fulfillment when we love someone, but we do not turn this love to an absolute.
The anarchist view of the dominance of romantic love is similar to the Buddhist perspective, but they differ in their origins. Anarchism is always an open social rebellion, a direct action against the status quo. While it proposes to revise social norms because they are hierarchical, rigid, and impede personal human freedom, Buddhism might suggest reconsidering them because they cause suffering. If anarchist action is directed outward, Buddhist practice is directed inward.
It is crucial that this orientation cannot exist in only one direction. Take a person who identifies as an anarchist and challenges society (through community building, protests, demonstrations, you name it), but in everyday life and relationships behaves like a zealous defender of their property and does not allow personal relationships to extend beyond the socially constructed boundaries. For me, the value of their message to the outside world is undermined by their unwillingness to change culturally established narratives in their personal life. While that is merely my personal ideals of a “proper anarchist,” Buddhism reflects it directly. Buddhism is often perceived as a very personal religion in which one detaches from the world and withdraws into yourself. Indeed, personal practice plays a big part in the Buddhist way of life, but if you do not learn to apply the results of the personal practice to the relations with the outside world, what is it worth then? By the way, if someone has learned to meditate and has begun to justify their indifference by saying that they have “let go” of their attachments, then most likely, they are just an asshole.
From a Buddhist perspective, all human suffering stems from not getting what we want. Freedom comes from letting go of attachments. Letting go means to sit down and to turn inward. To accept the emotional pain, to learn to be with it, and to stop further hurting yourself with thoughts like, “How could he do that?” or “Why didn’t I notice these signs six months ago?” When you clearly see what is happening, it becomes easier to act from that state, to bring out what you find inside yourself. When I stop controlling the external and instead accept it, I reject my Ego and learn to be happy. The ultimate Bakunin story!
I think of my former partners as my teachers: they entered my life and gave me experience. Experiences of joy and pain. I like the person I am now, and I would not have become this person if not for the close connections I’ve had throughout my life. Neither I nor the Ego are permanent, relationships are never permanent, everything changes — remember that?
It is precisely through Buddhist ideas that I came to understand what is wrong with the discourse of the healing path, and not only with it. I started therapy quite early. I navigate the terminology of psychotherapeutic discourse with ease. I often know the right question to ask to lead the other person to the root of their problem. Yet something always interfered in the way of therapy. A few years ago I tried to make sense of this in an essay I called “Healthy Relationships That Turned Into Partnership.” I wanted to write about this as a negative phenomenon, but I didn’t know how; I lacked the words to express what was wrong. The concept of healthy relationships is cultivated in my media space, and I am, of course, happy when it replaces the experience of abuse. But I often wanted to say, “Yes, the idea is great, but...,” and I never found anything to say because I couldn’t rationalize this small, protruding issue. I attended group therapy for two years; it was a very intense experience. Every week you dig into someone’s story and search for its origins. You celebrate together, you grieve together. Often, during discussions about personal boundaries, I wanted to interject something like, “Yes, but...” This “but” itched, manifested as a rash on my elbows, as if I had eaten a kilogram of tangerines before New Year’s, but it was elusive; I didn’t know where it came from, I didn’t know where to look. And now I’ve caught it right in my hands.
My “but” is the Ego. Therapy teaches us that our desires and thoughts are always valid.2 Let’s say my breakup happened because my partner cheated on me. I go to therapy and receive validation for my pain: it’s justified and understandable, because in our society, romantic relationships are fundamentally understood to be exclusive. Unfaithfulness, by thas logic, leads to a breakup. In therapy, it helps me to hear that I am not to blame. I soothe the Ego. It helps me to hear that I didn’t behave badly; it was my partner who did. I soothe the Ego. I get angry at my partner, I curse, I swear. The Ego smiles at me. People pity me, they repeat how terrible the experience was. The Ego curls up into a warm little ball on my knees and purrs.
The Ego is my “but.” Now I often try to notice when the Ego grows. I fear that the Ego will blind me, obscure an honest and sincere view of other people. Many times in the therapy group I heard statements like, “How dare he speak to you like that?” “It annoys me that she behaves that way toward you,” “That’s not normal, that’s abuse.” I was afraid to contradict. What could I say to someone who complains about a wife who cannot forgive old grievances? Could I really say, “Why do you always feel the need to defend yourself from her attacks? Because your Ego is wounded? What can you do about it?” Instead, I said, “It’s not cool that she acts that way; you need to protect your boundaries, you need to learn to get angry instead of bottling everything up.”
Under no circumstances do I want this to be read as “therapy is selfish and unethical.” Of course not. Therapy has helped me many times in my life. I suffer from recurrent depression, and if it weren’t for therapy, it would be much more difficult for me to live and cope with everyday life. Validation of feelings and support have always been helpful, and perhaps only because of therapy have I pulled myself out of every depressive swamp I found myself in.
In therapy, I spent so long learning to recognize and nurture my Ego. But now I want to get rid of it.
On the first day of writing the essay I meet up with V. for coffee and to write together. I tell her that I have started an essay about breakups. She asks whether I have read The Buddhist by Dodie Bellamy. I start laughing.
Ideas float in the air. They don’t even need to be chased, they just land on my shoulders on their own.
Conclusion
Just before the New Year I had a crush. Not a quiet, calm kind that spreads warmth through the body at the mere thought of them, but the kind that sends my heart racing, steals my sleep, and leaves other conversations with your friends quietly waiting to take their place.
It ended as quickly as it began. When I realized that nothing would develop between us, I was incredibly upset. I went to a workout hoping to distract myself, hoping that the exercise would pump up my endorphins and make me feel better. The plan failed: on the way home from the gym I was hit by a wave of emotion and started crying. I drank a beer and sent dozens of messages to my best friend, telling her that he was a jerk, that it wasn’t my fault for getting emotionally involved so early, after all, he gave me the signals that I interpreted as “green lights”. My Ego enjoyed the friendly support. “Yes, he’s a jerk. Yes, his behavior is riddled with mixed signals, and of course you’re on an emotional roller‑coaster because of that.” I reveled in that dialogue. My Ego hurt, but at the same time it blossomed.
The next morning, I woke up and a wave of shame washed over me. Why do I consider him a jerk? Because he didn’t act the way I expected and wanted? How stupid. He came into my life at the perfect time. The wild surge of energy from meeting him let me successfully finish my thesis. Our meetings reminded me that there are people with whom I can spend hours drinking beer, laughing, falling in love, dressing up before a meeting, talking about myself, being embarrassed, being amazed at the differences in worldviews, and even more amazed by coincidences, shifting my gaze from the ceiling to the beer glass, then to his eyes, and wringing my hands before I dare say, “I really like you,” and see him break into a smile.
I was simultaneously ashamed that I have been so angry at him, and I realized that I wasn’t really angry at him. I’m human, my Ego is terribly vulnerable, and that day I needed to get angry. Without recognizing my own pain and soothing my Ego, I probably wouldn’t have been able to enjoy getting to know him. So, even though I feel something is missing in the psychotherapeutic discourse, I still turn to it.
My encounter with reality regarding my recent crush was not a breakup in the sense I described earlier. I didn’t have to reinvent my life; I remained myself and didn’t have to relive the post‑breakup horrors. Yet that moment raised questions for me: perhaps, if we learn to view the world through a Buddhist lens, suffering around breakups could disappear? If we approach relationships, falling in love, and the people around us not as something we desperately want, but as something we would be happy about, then might we be able to see life more sincerely? Maybe then non‑instrumental love will continue even after a breakup? Maybe if we embrace the world in all its chaos and unpredictability, we’ll stop relying on socially accepted patterns scripts? Maybe we’ll become freer and more relaxed? Maybe we’ll learn to see people as individuals rather than merely as social roles and obligations?
I really want to learn.
It’s the first heavy snowfall in Berlin I’ve seen in four winters. Yesterday, the Ringbahn was canceled, just as I was waiting for it at the station. Today, each of the three trams that go to my house is delayed by half an hour. The weather collapse can’t defeat me. I am walking home admiring the falling snowflakes. Around a corner, I glance at the string of light and slip on the ice. I am falling onto the frozen surface and and smile, as I think how pleasant it is to accept what the day brings me.
Comments, sources, additional materials:
1) I do not claim to be an expert in philosophy, politics, or religious studies. All ideas expressed in this text, which I attribute to a particular school, are my personal interpretation (unless specific authors are indicated).
2) Funny stuff on the topic
this video about breakups:
3) My favorite content on the topic.
On a Buddhist forum, a man asks how to survive a breakup, with all the details of the relationship and past actions. A legendary discussion.
4) About relationship anarchy: one, two, three. Video and transcript about Bakunin (in Russian).
5) Existentialism:
about it and breakups:
6) An article that examines the concept of love through breakups.
7) Brogaard’s book that I mentoned:
Brogaard, B. (2015). On romantic love: Simple truths about a complex emotion.
8) Sara Protasi’s article:
Protasi, S. (2014) Loving People for Who They Are (Even When They Don’t Love You Back).
9) Lopez-Cantero’s article:
Lopez-Cantero, P. (2018) The Break-Up Check: Exploring Romantic Love through Relationship Terminations. Philosophia 46, 689–703. https://doi.org/10.1007/s11406-017-9935-8
11) Villiger and de Vries on a decision-making algorithm about breakups:
Villiger, D., de Vries, B. (2025) Breaking Up Rationally. J Ethics 29, 215–236. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10892-024-09505-5
12) Philosophical podcast about breakups:
I’m not claiming that anarchists cannot build a nuclear heterosexual family, rather that when one adopts an anarchist worldview, everything “normal” and familiar is often reinterpreted through this lens.
Although our thoughts are ideas, they are not reality.