Is love really neuroplasticity?

[warning: this chapter is anything but giving you a concrete answer.]

In The World Journal of Biological Psychiatry (2026, Vol. 27, No. 3, pp. 233–247), Donatella Marazziti and colleagues examined healthy adults and reported that "a stable romantic relationship partnership is associated with higher intra-platelet and serum BDNF levels. These findings support an association between current committed romantic relationship status and peripheral BDNF measures in healthy adults."

Brain-derived neurotrophic factor (BDNF) is a key protein involved in neuronal growth, survival, and neuroplasticity—the brain's remarkable ability to reorganize itself through experience. At first glance, these findings seem to suggest that love may extend beyond an emotional experience and leave measurable traces in our biology.

Yet this raises an interesting question for me: Is love really neuroplasticity?

The study points to an association between stable romantic relationships and peripheral BDNF levels, but it does not imply that romantic love alone reshapes the brain. Nor does it suggest that every relationship is inherently beneficial. We need not advocate for romantic relationships simply because they are associated with biological markers if those relationships are marked by persistent conflict, abandonment when difficulties arise or emotional instability.

Love is a physiological and psychological complex that intertwines with the individual's experiences, choices, and commitment to work toward the stability of a relationship. But at what stage does love indicate that this process is working? How does the brain know that a relationship is safe, secure, and worth investing in— and conversely, what signals tell it otherwise?

There are many factors that play essential roles in sustaining a romantic relationship. Yet when does a relationship cease to be defined by romance and become something else— companionship, attachment, partnership, or simply shared history? What determines the transition from one stage to another?

And when somewhere along the road that relationship becomes consumed by endless arguments, disappointments, and family conflicts, can it truly be reignited? Is rekindling love an intentional act of repeated effort, or is it something that can only emerge spontaneously, sparked once again by the same chemistry that brought two people together in the first place?

Perhaps the question can be framed through another form of learning. Consider strength training in CrossFit: when learning a movement such as the hang power clean, lifting progresses from 12 kg to 30 kg, and eventually to 120 kg. At first, every repetition demands conscious attention from the prefrontal cortex. With practice, however, the movement becomes increasingly automatic, relying more on well-established neural circuits and the cerebellum. Here comes the point where I invite you to take that cup of tea, settle into your favourite chair and think about it.

Could relationships develop in a similar way? Could repeated acts of trust, communication, forgiveness, and shared experiences gradually become embedded as patterns, making healthy responses more instinctive over time?

If so, perhaps love is not merely a feeling but also a process of continuous neural adaptation. Or perhaps neuroplasticity simply provides the biological foundation upon which love is expressed, while love itself remains something far more than the wiring of the brain. If stable love is associated with biological markers of neural growth, should we think of love as a form of neuroplasticity— or merely as one experience that promotes it?