Love, according to my tweens, is confusing, dramatic, deeply inconvenient, and—most importantly—not something they want to talk about with their mother for more than 14 seconds at a time.
Which is ironic, because once upon a time, they were toddlers who announced they were going to marry me, the dog, or whoever gave them a snack at the right moment.
Now? Now love is… complicated.
I live with three almost (not quite) 13-year-olds, which means I am essentially running a small emotional research lab where the test subjects are moody, highly opinionated, and allergic to sincerity. I have learned a lot about love this year. Not from books. From overheard conversations, eye rolls, and the way silence can say, “Please stop talking, immediately.”
Here’s what my tweens think love is—right now.
Love Is Extremely Embarrassing
First and foremost, love is cringe.
Holding hands? Cringe. Hugging in public? Illegal. Parents kissing? Grounds for permanent emotional damage.
Love, in their view, should be private, subtle, and ideally invisible. If you acknowledge it too loudly, it loses its power and becomes embarrassing content that may be referenced later as proof you’ve “always been weird.”
They will tolerate affection only under strict conditions:
- No witnesses
- No lingering
- No commentary
Love is fine. Just don’t perform it.
Love Is Loyalty (But Not the Mushy Kind)
Despite their disdain for romantic gestures, tweens are fiercely loyal.
Love means sitting next to your friend even when you’re mad at them. It means defending someone in a group chat, then complaining about them privately later. It means knowing who someone likes—and not telling. Ever.
Love is trust. Love is allegiance. Love is the unspoken rule that says, “I’ve got you, even if you’re annoying.”
They don’t say “I love you” much. They show it by choosing the same seat at lunch every day.
Love Is Snacks and Small Gestures
Forget grand declarations. Tween love lives in the details.
Love is saving the last brownie. Love is sharing your Flamin’ Hot Cheetos (even though you said you wouldn’t). Love is handing someone a hoodie without being asked.
This generation understands acts of service instinctively. They may not articulate feelings well, but they will silently slide you a snack and pretend it meant nothing.
That’s love. That’s the language.
Love Is Confusing and Comes With Rules No One Explained
Love, apparently, has a lot of rules. Rules they all know. Rules I do not.
You can like someone—but not too much. You can talk—but not text first. You can care—but only if you act like you don’t.
They are navigating a world of crushes, “talking,” not dating, definitely not dating, and whatever phase exists right before denial.
Love is exciting and terrifying and comes with the constant fear of being perceived.
Honestly? Same.
Love Is Friendship First (Even If They Won’t Admit It)
The strongest loves in their lives are friendships. The kids who feel safe. The ones who make them laugh. The ones who know when to change the subject.
Romantic love might be intriguing, but friendship is essential. They don’t say it like that—but they live it.
They measure love by who gets their time, their jokes, and their inside references. Who they want near them when life feels overwhelming.
That’s not shallow. That’s wisdom.
Love Is Also Something They Pretend They Don’t Care About
Here’s the thing about tweens: they care deeply. But caring openly is risky. So they act indifferent. They roll their eyes. They say things like, “It’s not a big deal,” when it very clearly is.
Love is vulnerability. Vulnerability is dangerous. Therefore, love is something you casually pretend doesn’t matter—even while building your whole emotional world around it.
They are learning how to protect their hearts. Sometimes clumsily. Sometimes loudly. Sometimes by pretending they don’t have one.
What I Hope They’re Learning (Even Now)
Right now, love looks awkward. Defensive. Half-formed. But underneath the snark and the shrugs, I see something good taking shape.
They know love isn’t constant fireworks. They know it shows up quietly. They know it requires trust.
They are learning that love can be steady without being loud. That it doesn’t have to be perfect to be real. That sometimes love looks like sitting on opposite ends of the couch, sharing space without words.
And maybe that’s exactly how it should start. Because love doesn’t arrive fully formed at twelve. It grows. It matures. It softens. Right now, it looks like loyalty, snacks, silence, and side-eye.
And honestly? That’s a pretty solid foundation.
Fry, Party of Five 
Leave a comment