This episode continues exploring romantic love through neurobiology and Buddhist philosophy, examining the three distinct stages of love and the necessity of moving through all of them to reach lasting partnership.

According to Helen Fisher's research, love progresses through three neurobiological stages. Stage One is lust—driven by testosterone and estrogen, governed by the hypothalamus controlling basic survival instincts. This is physical attraction and sexual chemistry before the heart becomes involved. Some people consciously choose to remain here, avoiding the complications of deeper attachment.

Stage Two is attraction or romantic obsession—where neuroscience reveals the most humbling truths. Dopamine spikes intensely, norepinephrine floods the system creating decreased need for sleep and constant wired thinking, and critically, serotonin drops 40%. This serotonin depletion triggers symptomology remarkably similar to obsessive-compulsive disorder: intrusive thoughts that loop endlessly, surveillance behaviors, irrational idealization. Brain imaging studies show people in Stage Two resemble cocaine addicts and those with OCD. This normalization is crucial—people in this stage carry enormous shame, believing they're going crazy, when this is actually a universal human experience necessary for pair bonding.

Stage Three is companionate love—the reward for surviving Stage Two's maelstrom. The neurochemistry shifts to oxytocin and vasopressin, the brain moves to executive functioning, and deep emotional bonds form characterized by trust, friendship, and shared values rather than intense euphoria. Research shows the happiest people are in Stage Three relationships where partners consider each other best friends.

A critical insight: there is no shortcut to Stage Three. The question "Can't I skip Stages One and Two?" is answered definitively—no. Evidence suggests people on antidepressants struggle to fall in love precisely because SSRIs prevent the serotonin drop necessary for Stage Two's bonding intensity. You must pay to play.

The Buddhist perspective intersects here: signing up for love means signing up for grief in equal measure due to impermanence. The practice isn't avoiding attachment but developing resilience to ride big waves without control. The attitude recommended is that of the fool archetype—stepping off the cliff trusting nothing, seeking heartbreak rather than fleeing it, allowing the world to break your heart completely so the whole world falls in.

Irvine Yalom writes: "I do not like to work with patients who are in love. Perhaps it is because of envy—I too crave enchantment. Perhaps it is because love and psychotherapy are fundamentally incompatible. The good therapist fights darkness and seeks illumination, while romantic love is sustained by mystery and crumbles upon inspection. I hate to be Love's Executioner."

This is part two of exploring romantic love through neurobiology and Buddhism. Last time I left some loose ends—here's where we tie them up.

According to Helen Fisher's research, there are three main stages of love, each with distinct neurobiological states. And here's the humbling part: your biology is your psychology. This isn't metaphysics—it's brain chemistry.

Stage One is lust—the realm of basic instinct driven by testosterone and estrogen. This is the hypothalamus at work, the same part of the brain that controls hunger, thirst, and sex. You can stimulate a tiny bundle of neurons in a rat's hypothalamus and watch it attack everything in its environment in a rage. Move to the next bundle and it will fuck everything in its environment—big rats, small rats, rubber gloves, anything. This is the ID, the Basic Instinct. The Dalai Lama has a hypothalamus. You have a hypothalamus. Everyone's got these circuits for killing and sex, just waiting to be activated.

Stage One is physical attraction, sexual chemistry, craving for union before the heart gets too involved. Some people consciously choose to stay here. My Italian buddy in Brazil gave me advice once: "Catch planes, not feelings." Meaning stay at Stage One before you move to Stage Two. If you start catching feelings, just catch a plane and start over.

Stage Two is attraction—infatuation, romantic obsession. This is where the sexual attraction moves into something else entirely, where the heart gets involved and the brain starts doing wild things. This is the realm the poets write about, the suffering Russian romantics, the ecstatic highs and crushing lows.

Here's what's happening: dopamine spikes intensely—the neurotransmitter of pursuit, reward, motivation. Not about getting something but chasing it. Norepinephrine floods the system—excitement, energy, adrenaline. Decreased need for sleep. Wired. Thinking incessantly about the beloved.

And here's the kicker: serotonin drops 40%. When serotonin drops, you get symptomology remarkably similar to obsessive-compulsive disorder. Intrusive thoughts that loop endlessly. She loves me, she loves me not. Where is he? What is she doing? Is he thinking about me? Around and around on a merry-go-round.

The brains of people in Stage Two look remarkably similar to cocaine addicts and people with OCD. So if you find yourself in Stage Two, just know you're viewing the world through the eyes of a cocaine addict with obsessive-compulsive disorder. That should be sobering. Though it's not a sober state.

I share this to normalize it. This is a normal human experience. People in Stage Two have enormous shame about it—they think they're going crazy. And in some ways they are. But every human who has ever been in love goes through this stage. Having intellectual understanding of it can help with the shame and bring a little neocortex into the equation.

Stage Three is attachment—the good kind. Companionate love. This is the reward you get for making it through the maelstrom of Stage Two. If you manage to survive that dopamine/norepinephrine tidal wave together, you arrive in the land of oxytocin and vasopressin. Oxytocin is released through repeated touch with the beloved. Vasopressin comes from achieving goals together. The dominant brain region shifts to executive functioning—the neocortex that can think about the future, long-term goals, modulate emotions.

Key traits: deep emotional bonds, trust, calm contentment rather than intense euphoria, friendship, shared values, cooperation. According to the research, the happiest people are in Stage Three. And it doesn't matter if you're married—it's whether you consider your partner a good friend, even your best friend.

After the first talk, someone messaged asking: "Why can't I just skip Stage One and Two and go right to Stage Three?" I don't think so. Stage Two has that low serotonin component, and there's evidence that people on SSRIs—antidepressants that inhibit serotonin reuptake—have a much harder time falling in love. Nature needs you to ruminate. There's something about the insanity of early love that creates pair bonds. It's like you've been through an ordeal together.

You gotta pay to play. No free lunch. No spiritual shortcut, no matter how Buddhist you are or how many cups of ayahuasca you drink. You're going through Stage One and Two if you want to get to Stage Three.

One major problem: some people move through these stages very quickly. By the second date they're planning the wedding, texting 50 times in a row, waiting by the phone like a cocaine addict for that next dopamine hit. Meanwhile the other person is still in Stage One thinking, "You're kind of cool but you're freaking me out." This asymmetry creates enormous pain.

Here's where Buddhism gets tricky. In some spiritual communities, there's huge emphasis on not being attached. But if you want to make it to Stage Three, you've got to be attached as a motherfucker. Smoke coming out of your ears, checking messages like an addict. That's very ego-dystonic for Buddhists. So be careful on the spiritual path not to be attached to being non-attached.

In some schools of Buddhism, the advice is: if you want enlightenment, take a vow of celibacy. Because romantic love is a jungle. But other schools follow the path of the householder—like Siddhartha in Hermann Hesse's novel, who meets the Buddha but realizes he won't find his path by following the monastic model. He needs to live the path of experience. He needs to love deeply. He can't renounce life—he's got to go through it.

Here's the Buddhist existential reality: because of impermanence, if you're signing up for love, you're signing up for a mountain of grief. To love means you will lose the object of your love. However much you allow that love in, there will be an equal wave of grief on the other side. You are signing up for big wave surfing.

There's a shadow side to meditation: people get very good at modulating their emotions, controlling their state. If trauma had a voice, it would say: "Last time something out of control happened, it was terrible. So just try to control everything." Some people modulate their breathing all day long to prevent emotional flooding. But that's clamping down on the life force. When Cupid shoots you, you are wounded. Any semblance of control goes out the window.

There's also the concept of allostatic load—the overall load on your system. Financial stress, insecure housing, bad food, unprocessed trauma, difficult relationships—these all add load. And being in love is a big allostatic load. It takes a lot of mojo. If your system is already under heavy load, there's simply no capacity to fall in love. One incentive to do good trauma work is to take the load off your system so it's freed up for this wild roller coaster.

But here's why you do the work: if you make it to Stage Three and find secure attachment, that's rocket fuel. It increases the allostatic capacity of both people. You've got each other's back. That safety net becomes the launching pad for taking on more life.

So my opinion? Do it anyway. Go out there and do foolish things.

I remember in Hawaii during winter when giant swells would come in. All us Lost Boys would stand on the cliff looking at these insane waves, overthinking it, already having panic attacks. Then this guy Jeff would pull up—like a golden retriever with a head injury, no amygdala—and he'd just say "Hey guys, look at the waves!" and paddle straight out into the maelstrom. Floundering, having a great time. The rest of us would follow him. He's out there saying "Isn't this great? This is so good for my ADD!" while I'm having a panic attack.

Jeff was the fool archetype. The fool steps off a cliff and trusts. What does he trust in? Nothing. He's just stepping off the cliff to see what happens. In my experience, that's the attitude to have with love.

There's an aikido move here: instead of running away from heartbreak—which is anxiety, avoidance—you actually start to seek it out. Mother Teresa said: "May the world break my heart so completely that the whole world falls in."

Those are my thoughts on love and loss and what's in between.