Modern dating has its own dictionary now, a whole language of shorthand for feelings we can’t quite name. The ick. The spark. The slow burn. Each one is supposed to mean something clear about attraction or compatibility. But human connection is rarely that simple.

I think about how much of our idea of love has been sold to us, through films, songs, and even those social media posts where perfect couples laugh over brunch. We grow up believing we’ll “just know” when it’s right, or that instant chemistry means destiny. The spark is meant to light up everything at once. The ick is the opposite — the signal to run. The slow burn is the one we’re told to be patient for, but only if we’re lucky enough to recognise it before we get bored and swipe away.

But in therapy, and in life, it’s more complicated than that.

When someone tells me they’ve got “the ick,” I always want to know what that feeling really means for them. Sometimes it’s instinct — a genuine signal that something feels off, unsafe, or mismatched. But sometimes it’s not about the other person at all. Sometimes it’s the body remembering what closeness once cost.

An ick can come from old patterns meeting new situations. If you’ve grown up having to read the room constantly, to manage other people’s moods, or to stay alert for rejection, the idea of someone actually liking you can be unsettling. Suddenly the nervous system that’s used to unpredictability finds steadiness strange. The very thing you say you want — calm, care, kindness, can feel almost suspicious.

So when someone texts back too quickly, or says something earnest, or wants to see you again soon, your body doesn’t always say “how lovely.” It says “this feels different, maybe dangerous.” The ick can be a kind of alarm, not because the other person is wrong for you, but because the situation is unfamiliar.

That’s why I think the ick needs context. An initial ick might just be discomfort with something new. It might need tolerance, a little time to breathe. If it continues or deepens, that’s when to listen to your gut. But not every ick deserves the instant exit that dating culture suggests. Sometimes it’s just a sign that something healthy feels new.

Then there’s the spark,  the Hollywood favourite. The spark is exciting, addictive, electric. It can also be confusing. I used to think spark meant compatibility, but chemistry doesn’t always equal connection. Sometimes it’s the jolt of recognition between two people whose patterns line up like puzzle pieces, not because it’s right, but because it’s familiar.

That doesn’t make it wrong, but it’s worth noticing. The spark can be a gift when it grows into warmth, but it can also burn fast and leave nothing to build on. What matters is what happens after the spark, whether there’s curiosity, safety, laughter, a willingness to be real once the shine wears off.

And then there’s the slow burn, the one that’s rarely celebrated in rom-coms because it’s harder to make a movie about two people gradually learning to trust each other. The slow burn is steadier, quieter, but sometimes it gets dismissed as “no chemistry.” I think that’s a shame. Often, it’s the kind of connection that has the best chance of lasting, the sort that builds safety before intensity.

It’s also the kind of relationship that can feel boring to those of us used to drama. Drama can be contagious. When we grow up surrounded by emotional highs and lows, we learn to equate love with intensity. So when someone is simply kind, consistent, and available, it can feel underwhelming. But steady doesn’t mean dull. Sometimes steady is exactly what healing looks like.

I see this often in therapy. Vulnerability is essential for closeness, but it can also feel overwhelming. Demands can feel heavy when you’ve spent years being self-reliant. Someone asking, “What do you need?” can stir both comfort and panic. Learning to receive care takes time, and patience on both sides.

So perhaps the ick, the spark, and the slow burn aren’t fixed categories at all. They’re emotional weather,  signals from our history about what feels safe, risky, or real. The goal isn’t to chase one or avoid another, but to learn what your signals mean for you.

If you get the ick, pause and ask, “Is this about them, or is this about how new safety feels in my body?” If you feel a spark, enjoy it, but keep your eyes open, can it grow into something grounded? And if you find a slow burn, give it space. It might not sweep you off your feet, but it could help you finally put them on solid ground.

Love doesn’t always announce itself with fireworks. Sometimes it’s the quiet warmth that grows when you feel seen and safe enough to exhale. That’s the real chemistry, when two nervous systems find they can rest near each other.

So maybe the ick isn’t always a warning, and the spark isn’t always a promise. Sometimes they’re just invitations to notice what your body’s learned about love, and what it might be ready to learn next.

Gentle curiosity goes further than judgement ever will.