Samadrita Ghosh
Aug 26, 2026
Who do we love
Saying “I love my mother” out loud sounds complete. But which mother do you mean? The one who taught you to tie your shoes, or the one who calls you now to ask how your week went? Neither of them is the mother. Each is a frame from a much longer film.
This is true of everyone we love. A friend at twenty is not the friend at forty, and yet we say we have loved them the whole way through. So what, exactly, have we loved?
The intuitive answer (“I loved them, the person”) breaks down under inspection. A person, examined closely, is not a fixed object. There is no single frozen self to point to and say, “this is the one I love.”
A person is closer to a river than a rock. And you cannot love a river by loving one wave.
Loving the Pattern
What we probably love is not a frame, but the motion between frames. Not the person as they are in any given month, but the shape of how they keep choosing the next step.
Think of a mandala. It is built from many repeated marks, arranged so that a design emerges only when you step back and see them together. No single line explains the whole picture. The meaning is in the repetition and the way each new mark honours the shape that came before it, while still adding something.
People work the same way. We do not fall in love with a static trait, like kindness or humour, floating free of time. We fall in love with a pattern of choosing, again and again, across years, in situations we could never have predicted in advance.
The pattern is the person and we love the becoming.
And it is only visible over time, the way a mandala is only visible once enough marks exist to form a shape.
This raises another question. “Do I love who they are, or who they are becoming?” The mandala model suggests this is a false choice. We love the becoming itself, the pattern that seems to create a mandala of our liking. So long as it keeps moving in a direction we recognise as growth rather than retreat.
Even the zoomed-in design, visible at our plane of existence, starts feeling familiar and triggers a promise of further expansion in the similar aesthetics.
Why Change Doesn’t Threaten Love
There is a common fear that change is the enemy of love. “You’ve changed,” we say, as an accusation. But the mandala suggests the opposite: Stagnation is the enemy.
If love were really aimed at a fixed set of traits, then any change would count as loss. A small death of the person we first loved. But that is not how it pans out.
When the change is within the bounds of our favourable patterns, like someone we love grows more patient, more self-aware, more willing to apologise, we do not mourn the person they used to be. We love them more.
The new pattern absorbs the old one rather than replacing it. Nothing is lost, and something get added to the design.
We are not talking about change that happens to someone passively, like aging or weather. We are talking about the accumulation of deliberate acts. The small, repeated decisions.
Each of these choices is a stroke in the mandala. Over years, the strokes form a shape we recognise, love, and trust, even while knowing that tomorrow’s stroke has not been drawn yet.
The Philosophical Lineage of The Mandala
This is not an entirely new thought, though it is rarely applied to love so directly.
The Greek philosopher Heraclitus argued that a person cannot step into the same river twice, because both the river and the person have changed by the second step.
He was describing identity as an ongoing process rather than a fixed point.
The Mandala adds the emotional consequence of that idea.
If identity is a process, then love aimed at a person must also be love aimed at a process.
It cannot be otherwise, unless we are content to love a memory rather than a living being.
Buddhist thought offers something similar with the idea that there is no fixed, unchanging self, but only a continuous stream of moments, each shaped by the ones before it.
Traditionally this idea is used to loosen our grip on our own identity, as a way of letting go of ego. But turned outward, toward the people we love, the same idea becomes strangely comforting rather than destabilising.
If there is no fixed self to lose, then loving someone “as they are right now” was never actually possible, and never actually necessary. What we have been loving all along is the flow itself.
Implications on How We Love
If this idea is objectively correct, it changes what loving someone well actually requires.
It means love is less like admiring a photograph and more like following a piece of music. One cannot love only one note in isolation. They have to hold the whole phrase in their mind, including where it has been and where it seems to be going.
This is why old friends can pick up a conversation after years apart and feel closer. They are not comparing two static photographs, but recognising the same underlying pattern with more strokes added on.
It also means that grief and love are more entangled than we usually admit.
When we lose someone through death, or distance, or simply drifting apart, what we grieve is not one frozen image in time. We grieve the interruption of a pattern that was still unfolding, a mandala left unfinished.
It suggests something gentler about how we should watch the people we love change. Growth in someone we love is not a threat to the love we already have for them. It is more material for the same love.