Mina Sisley, a 25-year-old photographer based in New York, is an active dater. Over the past few years, Sisley has done several rounds of what her mum calls “five dates in five days”, a practice that, as the name suggests, entails going on a first date every day for a week straight. Though the exercise is interesting (and romcom-coded) enough in itself, what’s even more interesting is that, on nearly every date she’s been on, Sisley’s date asks what her love language is. Unfortunately, this usually results in the opposite of the intended effect; the former psychology major doesn’t fully buy into love languages and feels as suspicious of a man talking about them as one who uses therapy-speak or inquires about her star sign. “To me, when a guy brings up love languages in that way, it’s a sign that someone cooked here,” she says.

Sisley’s male suitors, who, for the record, almost always name physical touch as their love language, are not alone in their wielding of the phrase. The five love languages – which refer to words of affirmation, quality time, physical touch, acts of service and receiving gifts –  have remained popular since they were conceptualised by Gary Chapman. In 1992, the Christian pastor, who came up with them based on trends he noticed in the couples he counselled at his church, turned his observations into The Five Love Languages: The Secret to Love that Lasts. The bestseller argued that everyone has a different way of receiving and expressing love, and that understanding your partner’s specific way is the key to a successful relationship.

To say that love languages have resonated with people would be an understatement. Since its release, Chapman’s book has sold millions of copies, and decades later, “love languages” have become deeply embedded in our cultural lexicon. Today, they’ve even taken on a life of their own, with people often going beyond the original five, and claiming everything from creating playlists to being bored together as a love language. Recently on TikTok, some young people have taken to sharing hyperspecific love languages of their own. While dating in 2026 couldn’t feel more different from dating in 1992, it’s clear that the notion still carries weight. So, why have love languages withstood the test of time?

Though in modern dating, it’s not uncommon to discuss love languages on a first date, much of the framework’s initial purpose and appeal was to help couples, especially married ones, who were already at their brink. Problems in your relationship didn’t have to mean that you were fundamentally incompatible; they just meant that you and your partner showed love differently, AKA spoke different “languages”, and if you could only learn each other’s, you might be able to see one another more clearly. It’s a relatively straightforward idea that, while not a psychological concept in the way that something like attachment styles are, is still used by mental health professionals today.

Lisa Chen, a psychotherapist based in California, for example, says she often utilises love languages in couples therapy, and that it’s something she addresses at the start of her work with a couple. In fact, the relationship expert even assigns couples love language “homework”, asking them to explicitly state their own, and then practice expressing their partner’s love language several times a week. “There are a lot of people that come in already understanding their love language,” says Chen, who credits people’s pre-existing literacy around love languages as a reason for their usefulness in therapy. “It’s such a relatable and easy concept to grasp.”

“Self-perception is difficult these days, and understanding how you present to everyone else is even harder. I think these systems provide a way to funnel all that information – a sense of stability or a way to define yourself”

Over the years, the couples therapy tool evolved beyond its original use case. Love languages appear in popular music, like in Ariana Grande’s 2020 song of the same name. They appear on dating apps, like on Hinge, where they’ve shown up as a prompt as early as 2021. They appear in winning college essays, like in Layla Kinjawi Faraj’s 2022 essay, which named “WhatsApp intimacy” as a love language during times of war. Gradually, the phrase has expanded beyond the original five, too. Even love language sceptic Sisley, for example, names photography as a non-traditional love language of her own, citing the act of documenting and being documented as a way she experiences love.

Declarations of one’s own love languages often appear on social media, especially on TikTok. There, sharing one’s niche love language, usually typed out in yellow font, of course, has become yet another way to show vulnerability and lay one’s self bare on the app. While love languages have long been meme-ified, this current brand of online love language discourse has none of the forced quirkiness of its predecessors, like tweets that named napping as love language. Irony, it seems, is out, and earnestness is in.

Love languages are no longer just for couples, too. For people like Fabi Suarez, a 24-year-old living in New York City, they are a way to understand platonic relationships. Suarez, who admits she definitely buys into love languages, says that feeling considered is what she looks for both in a friend and in a partner, and that it’s her female friendships that have taught her this the most. If she saw her former roommate’s favourite candy at the store, for example, she would automatically buy a bag and leave it on her desk. “That’s my way of saying, ‘Hey, love you,’ because I know I’m not always the best with words of affirmation,” she says. (Over time, her roommate picked up on Suarez’s love language and started doing similarly considerate gestures for her.)

There’s clearly a comfort that can be found in self-categorisation. Suarez compares love languages to taking a BuzzFeed quiz, in that it’s comforting to know where you fit in the puzzle. “Self-perception is difficult these days, and understanding how you present to everyone else is even harder,” she says. “I think these systems provide a way to funnel all that information – a sense of stability or a way to define yourself.” When understanding life and love feels nearly impossible, labels like love languages, attachment styles, astrological signs, and so on, can provide vernacular that helps us make sense of it all.

The expansion of what a love language can mean is ultimately a good thing, considering that the limitations of only having five have long been one of their main critiques. Preston Rakovsky, for example, a 25-year-old who’s somewhat of a nerd about love, is one of those critics. The software engineer turned content creator’s preoccupation with the subject started three years ago, when he would go to parks with a sign that read, “I’m bored. Let me ask you vulnerable questions.” Eventually, Rakovsky’s projects became widely-viewed dialogues on social media.

“As someone who talks to people about this every day, I couldn’t disagree with them more,” says Rakovsky of the five love languages, which he considers too broad and loosely defined. Love languages are often brought up in his interviews, but in a more nuanced context. After all, there are far more than five ways to give and receive love. “Intimacy for me is about curiosity, but I’ve talked to people where their ‘language’ is playfulness – they need to be silly to feel safe,” says Rakovsky. “It blows my mind how diverse those needs are.”

No matter what one’s opinions on love languages are, the decades-old concept clearly represents a timeless craving: recognition. And perhaps the act of simply getting people talking about love is a win. Even Rakovsky, a love language hater, recognises that wanting to feel understood is most people’s ultimate craving. “I think we’re all just looking for proof that we are seen,” he says.