What Is Intimacy Now?

In my conversations about modern dating, I keep noticing two very different, and almost contradictory, patterns around sex and intimacy.

One is that sex has become casual, almost expected. Dating has shifted our social rituals, and for many people, physical connection often comes before emotional depth has a chance to grow. For some, that’s an intentional choice, a way to explore chemistry or reclaim sexual autonomy without the weight of commitment.

I recently read an article describing couples who had been together for five months yet had never held hands, though they were sexually active the entire time. That small act of affection, the interlacing of fingers, was seen as too intimate. It’s fascinating, holding hands felt like a deeper emotional statement than sex itself. It seems that in today’s culture, we’ve started to assign meaning differently. Sex can feel easier to give, but vulnerability, true emotional closeness, is where many people hesitate.

Then there’s the other pattern: people who avoid sex altogether, believing that by keeping that physical boundary, they’re protecting themselves emotionally. And yet, they spend hours talking, sharing stories, cuddling on the couch, creating small rituals together, acts that are, in their own way, deeply intimate. When those relationships end, the loss can still feel just as painful, because intimacy was built, just through a different route.

So what is intimacy now?

When did we start believing that sex defines a relationship, or that avoiding it keeps us safe from attachment?

We often talk about physical intimacy as the line to be crossed or avoided, but intimacy takes so many forms, emotional, intellectual, somatic, spiritual. The moments when someone really sees us, when we feel calm enough to let our guard down, or when a conversation lingers into the early hours, those are intimate, too.

We live in a world that values independence, self-protection, and control. But intimacy asks us to surrender some of that. To be curious, not just about who the other person is, but about what happens inside us when we begin to connect.

In a culture that celebrates detachment and instant gratification, genuine intimacy, the slow-building kind, can feel like a lost art. Maybe the question isn’t when we have sex, but how we build safety, trust, and connection while staying true to ourselves.

As we redefine what relationships look like after divorce or major life change, this is the work:

Learning to recognize what kind of intimacy we crave, what feels safe, and what we’re truly ready to share.