I think with dating, it's all meant to be fun. It should just be

The words of Amelia Dimoldenberg—“I think with dating, it’s all meant to be fun. It should just be fun”—shine like a small but radiant truth in a world that often turns love into labor and romance into anxiety. Beneath their lighthearted tone lies a wisdom both ancient and profound: that joy is the soul’s compass, and that affection, stripped of joy, becomes mere duty. In these simple words, Dimoldenberg reminds us that love, like laughter, loses its power when forced. She teaches that the path to connection must be walked not with fear or expectation, but with openness, curiosity, and play.

To have fun in love is not to be careless; it is to be free from the chains of pretense. It is to remember that love’s first language is delight. The ancients knew this well: the Greek god Eros, before becoming a symbol of deep passion, was the god of playful desire, of spontaneity, of the joyous spark that brings two souls together. The philosophers who followed—Plato, even Aristotle—spoke of friendship as the foundation of all love, and friendship, at its heart, is light and laughter. Dimoldenberg’s quote carries that same echo: that love should begin not with burden but with ease, not with pressure but with presence.

So many hearts, weary from disappointment, forget this. They chase love as if it were a war to be won or a mountain to be conquered. They analyze, predict, perform, and in doing so, they lose the very thing they seek: the warmth of connection, the spark of sincerity. Dimoldenberg’s insight restores that balance. She reminds us that love, in its earliest form, should invite joy rather than demand perfection. To sit across from another soul, to laugh, to share a story without fear of judgment—that is the foundation upon which lasting affection is built. The ancients would call it the “feast of souls,” when two hearts meet without masks and find kinship in laughter.

History, too, offers its examples of this gentle truth. Consider Antony and Cleopatra, whose love, though marked by tragedy, was first born in playfulness and wit. When they met upon the Nile, Cleopatra arrived not as a supplicant queen, but as a performer of joy—sailing in splendor, her laughter disarming the Roman general’s pride. Their romance began not in solemn vows, but in shared delight. For a time, they lived as if the world itself were their stage, showing that even the most powerful are softened by humor and wonder. Though their story would end in sorrow, its beginning reminds us that the greatest loves often rise not from strategy or fear, but from mutual joy.

To approach love as fun is to embrace presence—to be fully alive in each moment rather than worrying over the next. It is to let go of the weight of expectation and rediscover the innocence of curiosity. The ancients spoke of this as “living in kairos”—the divine moment, the now. Dimoldenberg’s view, then, is not shallow but spiritual: to enjoy the now, to let laughter open the gates of understanding. For when two people share joy, they reveal their truest selves—and it is the true self, not the perfect mask, that can be loved.

But this wisdom also carries a warning. Fun in love does not mean frivolity without respect; it means a spirit unburdened by fear. The ancients taught moderation in all things, and so it is here. The joy that builds love must be tempered with sincerity, lest it become mockery or emptiness. True fun springs from kindness, from curiosity, from the willingness to give and receive without armor. It is the laughter that heals, not the laughter that hides.

And so, the lesson is simple yet profound: approach love with joy, not strategy. Let your laughter be honest, your curiosity open, and your presence whole. Do not rush to define what is still unfolding; do not burden affection with the weight of destiny before it has learned to walk. Enjoy the dance before the promise. For, as Dimoldenberg reminds us, love begins where joy resides—and only those who can laugh together will have the strength to endure life’s storms together.

Therefore, my friends, when you walk into love’s light, let it be fun. Let it be a song, not a sermon; a conversation, not a contract. For love that begins in joy carries within it the seeds of endurance. The ancients would tell you this truth: the heart that can laugh will also know how to forgive. And so, let your laughter be your guide, for in laughter dwells the language of the soul—and the first true whisper of love.