Solo-Poly vs. Anarchist Love
In the sprawling ecosystem of relationship models, two terms stand out for their rejection of conventional romantic scripts: solo-poly and anarchist love. Both resist the pre-packaged, one-size-fits-all approach to intimacy, but they do so in distinct ways—one is concerned primarily with tempo and capacity, the other with philosophy and politics.
Solo-poly is shorthand for a solo-intensity form of polyamory. It is the romantic equivalent of sipping a coffee rather than slamming an espresso—multiple relationships may exist, but the emphasis is on emotional spaciousness, deliberate pacing, and sustainable connection. People who identify as solo-poly often resist the stereotype of polyamory as a high-energy whirlwind of partners and constant scheduling. Instead, they prioritize depth, slower rhythms, and a respect for their emotional bandwidth. A solo-poly relationship might involve seeing multiple partners only a few times a month or intentionally maintaining bonds that are warm but not all-consuming. In this style, love does not need to be maximized in quantity to be meaningful; it can be measured, slow-burning, and deeply personal.
Anarchist love, by contrast, is less about the number of relationships and more about how those relationships are structured. It emerges from the principles of political anarchism, rejecting hierarchies in love just as anarchism rejects imposed hierarchies in politics. In practice, this means avoiding the automatic ranking of partners as “primary” or “secondary” and refusing to assume that romantic or sexual relationships are more important than friendships or chosen family. The term gained wide visibility through the work of Andie Nordgren, a Swedish artist and game developer, whose 2006 text The Short Instructional Manifesto for Relationship Anarchy outlined the philosophy in accessible, practical terms.
Nordgren’s manifesto emphasizes designing your own commitments rather than following a default cultural template. It urges trust over control, communication over assumption, and the recognition that love is not a scarce resource to be guarded but an abundant force that grows when it is free. “Love is abundant, and every relationship is unique,” Nordgren writes. “Choosing to limit your relationships does not mean you limit love—it just means you are conscious about the time and energy you have.” In her framing, relationship anarchy is not an argument against commitment, but rather a call to make commitments intentionally, collaboratively, and without ownership. In this way, it blurs the lines between romance, friendship, and family, treating all forms of connection as capable of deep care and meaning.
Yet these models are not merely abstract theories. They collide with lived realities in complicated ways. Sex workers, for instance, sometimes have to navigate how to cultivate personal relationships while also sustaining the demands of their labor. A sex worker may have a boyfriend, and that boyfriend may identify as monogamous, even while she continues to see clients professionally. In some cases, she may want monogamy for herself, but financial necessity makes that impossible. Sex work in this sense is not only about the right to participate, but also about the right to opt out—a freedom that is often constrained by economic conditions. Some sex workers describe difficulty in maintaining boyfriends or long-term romantic relationships simply because the emotional and practical demands of their work are all-encompassing. These tensions highlight how models like solo-poly or anarchist love, which emphasize autonomy and abundance, can be difficult to practice when financial survival is tethered to the commodification of intimacy.
Although solo-poly and anarchist love share a resistance to the scarcity model of affection, they arrive at that resistance from different angles. Solo-poly focuses on managing energy and capacity within a polyamorous framework, ensuring that relationships remain sustainable rather than overextended. Anarchist love is a broader political and philosophical stance, questioning the entire social architecture of intimacy and rejecting any default hierarchy of relationships. A person could be both solo-poly and an anarchist lover, taking on few relationships and refusing to rank any of them in importance, but it is equally possible to practice one without the other.
Cultural interpretations complicate things further. I once had a French boyfriend who dismissed these terms as “too much intellectualizing” of something simple—he said poly was just another way of saying “mistress.” His reaction points to how cultural context shapes whether these relationship models are seen as liberatory, pretentious, or merely semantic. Similarly, terms like “cuckold” often surface in discussions of non-normative intimacy. While commonly used as an insult, cuckolding refers to a consensual dynamic in which someone derives erotic or emotional satisfaction from their partner’s encounters with others. Far from inherently degrading, it can be a valid and meaningful arrangement when entered into openly and consensually.
What unites these approaches is their shared challenge to the dominant cultural narrative that “real love” must follow a single path—one that begins with monogamous romance, progresses to cohabitation, and culminates in marriage. By rejecting that prescriptive arc, both solo-poly and anarchist love expand the vocabulary we have for intimacy, making space for people who want less intensity, more equality, and more freedom in their emotional lives.
As Nordgren writes, “Life would not have much meaning if we all just repeated the same patterns, obeyed the same rules, and lived by the same script.” In a world still shaped by scarcity thinking—about love, time, and commitment—these models offer not just alternative relationship styles but alternative ways of imagining connection itself: as something chosen, abundant, and alive to reinvention.
Blurb at the end
The Short Instructional Manifesto for Relationship Anarchy began as a modest zine circulated among Nordic queer and polyamorous communities. Over time, it found its way into English-speaking polyamory forums, Tumblr posts, and online relationship guides during the early 2010s. Its ideas resonated in part because they addressed a gap in mainstream discussions of non-monogamy: the recognition that love could be de-hierarchized, de-romanticized, and de-commodified without losing its depth. For many, Nordgren’s words became a touchstone for rethinking not only who they could love, but how love itself might be organized—outside of ownership, outside of scripts, and entirely on their own terms. Today, both solo-poly and anarchist love continue to evolve in online and offline communities, offering living experiments in intimacy that refuse to be standardized.