Familiarity Breeds Contempt: The Slow Death of Wonder

They say love fades when you see someone too often. That the grandeur of a city dulls when you live in it. That even the rarest luxury becomes ordinary when it sits in your wardrobe long enough. The human condition, it seems, is cursed with an allergy to constancy. 

But is it really familiarity that breeds contempt? Or is it our own restless desire for novelty, for the thrill of the unfamiliar, that turns comfort into monotony? Is it the object, the place, the person that becomes dull — or is it simply the way we stop looking? 

We are creatures of habit, and therein lies the tragedy. We want stability, yet we grow bored when we have it. We crave closeness, yet recoil when it strips away mystery. We long for permanence, yet resent the predictability that comes with it. Perhaps it is not familiarity itself that breeds contempt, but the failure to see something — someone — with fresh eyes once familiarity sets in.

The Allure of the Unattainable: Why We Crave What We Cannot Have 

Desire thrives in distance. The rare, the out-of-reach, the almost-but-not-quite is where longing is born. A handbag behind glass is far more tempting than one casually tossed on a chair. A lover across the room — silent, unreadable — is far more intoxicating than one who texts you their lunch order every day. The moment we have something, it loses a certain glow, like a star that burns less brightly once it enters our orbit. 

This is why luxury brands are built on controlled scarcity. The trick is to give just enough to make people want more. To keep exclusivity alive by making even the ultra-rich wait. A Hermès Birkin is not special because of its craftsmanship alone — it is special because you cannot simply walk in and buy one. You must earn it, or at the very least, wait for it. And waiting, ironically, makes it feel more valuable. 

Familiarity, on the other hand, makes things feel ordinary. And what is ordinary is disposable. 

At the start, relationships — romantic, familial, platonic — there is curiosity, the thrill of discovery, the electricity of the unknown. You study the other person’s face, notice the smallest shifts in their expression, marvel at their quirks. But as time passes, that same face becomes something you see every day. The voice that once captivated you becomes just another sound in the background. The moments that once seemed magical blur into the monotony of routine. 

We are addicted to the unattainable because it allows us to romanticise. The reality of familiarity, however, strips away fantasy. 

The Distance That Creates Desire 

A stolen glance is more powerful than an extended gaze. A hand that almost — but doesn’t quite — touch yours is more electric than an embrace. There is something in the almost, the not yet, the just out of reach that heightens desire. This is why we become obsessed with the unavailable, why the lover who is slightly indifferent is always more attractive than the one who showers us with devotion. It is the not knowing that keeps us intrigued. 

Desire, at its core, is about anticipation. The tension before fulfilment, the space between longing and having. The second something is fully ours, it risks becoming ordinary. This is why the chase — the moment before something is secured — often feels more thrilling than the prize itself. We are creatures who romanticise potential, who worship what could be more than what is. 

This isn’t just a matter of romance — it extends to almost every aspect of human nature. We want what is difficult to obtain because effort itself creates value. A restaurant with a six-month waiting list seems far more appealing than one you can walk into at any time. A limited-edition watch carries an aura of importance simply because it is scarce. The idea that something is not easily accessible makes it feel inherently superior. 

Even in art, the things we cannot fully grasp remain the most compelling. The Mona Lisa’s half-smile is famous precisely because it is unreadable — had she grinned broadly, she might not be the most recognisable face in history. The mystery is what draws us in. The same can be said for literature, for music, for fashion. The pieces that linger in our minds are often the ones that refuse to give themselves away too easily. 

But there is a paradox at play here. While we crave the unattainable, we also seek comfort in possession. We chase something until it is ours, only to find that, once attained, it no longer holds the same weight. This is the cruel cycle of desire: the closer we get, the dimmer the glow. And so we keep reaching, always convinced that the next thing — the next person, the next experience, the next city — will finally satisfy us. 

Perhaps the answer lies not in the chase, nor in the possession, but in learning how to sit in the in-between. In appreciating the build-up without needing to claim. In learning that the unknown is not just a source of longing, but a space where beauty lives. 

Roland Barthes, in Mythologies, dissects the way society constructs meanings around objects, elevating them from mere things to powerful cultural symbols. Luxury, for instance, is not just about craftsmanship or exclusivity — it is about myth. A Hermès Birkin is not just a bag; it is a story, a status symbol, a carefully curated absence. The reason you cannot simply walk into a store and buy one is precisely why it holds value. The illusion of inaccessibility makes the object more desirable, feeding the idea that rarity equals worth. 

This same logic extends to human relationships and experiences. The Eiffel Tower, as an idea, is more romantic than the daily reality of it, clogged with tourists and overpriced cafés. A lover, when seen through the hazy lens of distance, is more intriguing than one whose every habit and flaw you know. Barthes would argue that our desires are shaped not by the objects or people themselves but by the myths we construct around them. The moment something becomes too familiar, too real, it is stripped of its mystique — revealed to be just another object in the mundane world.

Why Familiarity Kills Magic 

The cruel trick of human nature is that we crave closeness, yet recoil from it once we have it. A dream job ceases to feel extraordinary once it becomes just another Monday morning. A city that once felt alive with endless possibility becomes the place where you do your grocery shopping. Even the rarest luxury, once owned, begins to feel routine. 

This is the tragedy of possession: the moment something is ours, it loses the shimmer of potential. We no longer see it for what it is, but for what it is not. The Birkin in your wardrobe is no longer the dream — it is just another bag you have to find space for. The lover who once made your heart race is now the person who forgets to buy milk. The penthouse view that once took your breath away becomes the backdrop for ordinary evenings scrolling through your phone. 

We are creatures of contrast. Things shine because they are framed by what we lack. The magic of anticipation is that it gives us something to reach for, something to project our longing onto. Once the object of desire is attained, it is no longer an idea — it is a thing, flawed and real. And reality, by its nature, cannot compete with the fantasy we built in our heads. 

This is why luxury brands cultivate longing through absence. The waitlist for a watch, the controlled scarcity of a couture piece — these are not inconveniences; they are part of the seduction. It is far more thrilling to be in pursuit than to be in possession. Luxury, like love, must keep you wanting more. 

The same principle applies to relationships. The first few months of romance are electric because they are filled with discovery. You study their face, their voice, the way they pronounce certain words. The mystery, the slight unfamiliarity, makes them endlessly fascinating. But familiarity breeds blindness. The details you once obsessed over become things you stop noticing. The way they stir their coffee, the scent of their skin — what was once intoxicating becomes the background noise of your life. 

But does this mean we are doomed to lose interest in everything we once adored? Not necessarily. Perhaps the trick is to resist the urge to fully own what we love. To remember that appreciation is an act, not a passive state. To notice, deliberately, the things we have stopped seeing. The job, the person, the city — they do not lose their magic. We simply forget to look. 

And maybe that is the antidote to familiarity: curiosity. The effort to see something as if for the first time, even when it has been yours for years. To remind yourself that what is now ordinary was once extraordinary — and still is, if only you choose to see it that way.

Erich Fromm’s To Have or to Be? offers another lens through which to view our discontent with familiarity. He argues that modern society has conditioned us to define happiness through having rather than being. We do not simply love a person — we must possess them. We do not just admire beauty — we must own it, capture it, display it. The moment we shift from experiencing something to owning it, we drain it of its magic. 

A city you once longed to visit loses its enchantment once it becomes the place where you sit in traffic. A person you once adored becomes predictable because they are no longer an idea but a daily presence. The thrill of the chase — whether for love, luxury, or experience — relies on a state of becoming, not having. And yet, paradoxically, we are conditioned to believe that true fulfilment lies in possession. 

Fromm’s philosophy suggests that our dissatisfaction stems from this contradiction. We seek to own things that can only truly be felt. Love, excitement, beauty — these are not objects to be kept but experiences to be lived. And so, the moment we capture them, they slip through our fingers, and we find ourselves searching for the next unattainable thing. 

The Illusion of Choice 

One could argue that the modern world has only made this problem worse. The more options we have, the less satisfied we are. We swipe through faces on a screen, convinced that the next one might be better. We buy new clothes, new gadgets, new experiences — always chasing the thrill of new, only to discard them when they become familiar. In a world of abundance, nothing ever feels quite enough. 

It is a strange paradox: we believe choice grants us freedom, yet it often does the opposite. Too many options create restlessness, a perpetual fear of missing out. The illusion of infinite possibilities tricks us into believing that whatever we have is probably not the best we could have. Why settle for a perfectly good relationship when a more exciting one might be a few swipes away? Why enjoy what we own when something newer, shinier, and supposedly better is always on the horizon? 

This endless pursuit of the unattainable is, in many ways, a kind of self-sabotage. We convince ourselves that happiness lies just beyond the horizon — that the next purchase, the next relationship, the next city will finally bring the satisfaction that eludes us. And yet, time and time again, we find ourselves back in the same place: longing for something just out of reach. 

Social media only amplifies this dissatisfaction. We are constantly confronted with the illusion that others have chosen better. A curated feed of dream holidays, enviable wardrobes, seemingly perfect relationships — all of it conspires to make us believe that somewhere out there, a better life is waiting. The problem, of course, is that it is just that: an illusion. The person with the perfect holiday is still scrolling through their phone, envying someone else’s version of perfection. The one with the Birkin still wants the next more exclusive bag. The couple posting loved-up photos are still debating whose turn it is to take the bins out. The chase never ends. 

And so, we find ourselves trapped in a cycle of endless wanting. We have been conditioned to see satisfaction as stagnation. To settle — to fully commit to anything, whether it be a person, a place, or a way of life — feels like limiting ourselves, like shutting the door on other, potentially better, options. And yet, is there not something tragic about never allowing ourselves to arrive? To spend our lives in pursuit of something that may not even exist? 

Perhaps the real freedom is not in having infinite choices, but in choosing — deliberately, consciously — to be content with what we have. To understand that happiness is not something waiting for us in some imagined future, but something we must create in the present. To reject the illusion that there is always something better, and instead, to see the extraordinary in what we already possess.

Reclaiming Wonder in a World of Excess 

If the unattainable is what we crave, then the challenge is to learn how to see value in what we already have. To resist the instinct to discard, to look at the familiar with fresh eyes. A city you have lived in for years still holds secrets — if you bother to look for them. A relationship that feels predictable is still full of moments worth noticing — if you choose to pay attention. 

Perhaps true luxury is not about ownership, but about perception. The ability to look at something ordinary and still see magic in it. The ability to hold something close without losing sight of its worth. 

Maybe the rarest thing of all is not the unattainable — but the ability to cherish what is already ours. 

Why We Stop Seeing What’s Right in Front of Us 

The Eiffel Tower is only magical if you don’t live in Paris. The sea is hypnotic only when you’re not drowning in it daily. When something becomes woven into our routine, we stop noticing its beauty. It becomes background noise. 

This is why people fly across the world to see wonders, only to ignore the ones in their own backyard. Why a new lover feels exciting, but a long-term partner feels predictable. Why childhood homes feel suffocating when we live in them but nostalgic once we leave. The beauty of familiarity is that it offers stability. The tragedy is that we rarely appreciate it until it’s gone. 

The things we love most are often the things we forget to look at. The buildings we pass every day, the people we share our lives with, the luxuries we once dreamed of owning but now hardly notice as we throw them onto a chair. It is not that these things have lost their beauty — it is simply that we have stopped paying attention. 

It is a strange feature of the human condition: the moment something becomes ours, it begins to blend into the background. A child who grows up by the sea does not marvel at the waves in the same way a visitor does. The person who lives in Rome does not gasp at the Colosseum each time they pass it. We are wired to adapt, to normalise, to fold even the most extraordinary experiences into the fabric of our daily lives until they become just another thing. 

But what happens when what is just another thing disappears? 

In Mahmoud Darwish’s To My Mother, he writes, 

"I yearn for my mother’s bread, 

My mother’s coffee, 

Mother’s brushing touch." 

A simple, everyday thing — a piece of bread — becomes an object of unbearable longing only when it is no longer within reach. This is the cruellest trick of familiarity: we only truly see something when we are forced to remember it instead. 

It is the same with places. We curse the cities we grow up in, bored by their streets, exhausted by their sameness. But the second we leave, they transform in our memories. Suddenly, the dull street we used to walk down every day is bathed in golden nostalgia. The corner café we barely glanced at before becomes sacred. The park where we spent lazy afternoons, the way the air smelled after it rained, the sound of footsteps on cobbled streets — these things, once mundane, become the landmarks of a home we never knew we loved until it was no longer ours. 

Perhaps this is why exile carries such a deep, aching pain. To be forcibly separated from something is to be condemned to see it with perfect clarity, to long for it in a way one never did while it was close. Darwish, writing from exile, did not just miss his mother’s bread — he missed the ability to take it for granted. 

It is not just loss that sharpens our appreciation; time does it too. How many of us have looked back at past relationships and thought, I didn’t realise how lucky I was? How many childhood memories feel sweeter now, knowing that we will never be that young again? The moment has passed, and with it, the ability to see it for what it was. 

This is the paradox: we crave the extraordinary, yet we are blind to it when it stands still. The only way we know something was extraordinary is when it stops standing still — when it moves away, when it is taken, when it becomes a memory rather than a presence. The problem isn’t that life lacks magic. The problem is that we are too close to see it. 

So, what is the solution? Must we lose everything to appreciate it? Must we become tourists in our own lives, forcing distance between ourselves and what we love in order to see it clearly? 

Maybe the answer is simpler. Maybe it is about paying attention. About looking at the people we love as if we might never see them again. About treating the places we live in as if we are visiting. About remembering, even in the middle of routine, that this too will pass, and that one day, we may wish for nothing more than the life we have now.

The Fine Line Between Love and Contempt 

Familiarity doesn’t always breed contempt. Sometimes, it breeds devotion. The deepest relationships — romantic or otherwise — are not the ones built on constant novelty, but on the quiet, enduring appreciation of someone’s presence even when they are no longer a mystery. 

It is easy to adore someone in their best moments — when they are new, exciting, unknown. It is much harder to love them when you’ve seen all their flaws, when the sparkle has faded, and they are just another human being, complex and imperfect. 

Contempt arises when we stop seeing value. Love persists when we choose to look again. 

Perhaps this is why the rarest relationships are the ones where two people continue to choose each other, even when there is nothing new left to discover. Where they see the same face every day but still find something worth marvelling at. 

This applies not just to love but to life itself. The things we grow tired of — our homes, our routines, our belongings — often hold the same beauty they did when we first encountered them. The only thing that has changed is our gaze. 

Escaping the Curse of Contempt 

So how do we keep wonder alive in a world where everything eventually becomes familiar? How do we prevent closeness from turning into apathy? 

Perhaps the secret is not in chasing something new, but in learning to see the old things with fresh eyes. 

Maybe the key to desire is not distance, but perspective. 

Maybe the trick to loving someone — even after years, even after knowing every flaw — is to remind yourself why you loved them in the first place. To choose to be amazed. 

And maybe the rarest luxury is not the thing you can’t have — but the thing you already do, seen as if for the first time. 

S xoxo

Written in Stockholm, Sweden

1st March 2025