- 18:00
A discreet phenomenon in contemporary relationships, icing, literally “putting on ice,” refers to connections that are not broken but suspended. It is an intermittent presence, a desire held under a glass dome, and tenderness moving in slow motion in the digital age.
The Anglicism icing, literally “putting on ice,” is not just a lexical novelty born of online platforms. It can also be understood as a technique of connection. It is neither a breakup nor a clear absence, but a controlled freezing. The icer keeps the other in reserve, present yet unavailable. The act consists of responding sporadically, reaching out to avoid losing the connection, and then withdrawing again. Unlike ghosting, icing does not involve a phantom disappearance. Instead, it maintains a subtle economy of presence. The bond endures, though cooled. Desire circulates, but in slow motion.
Freud provides an initial framework for understanding this phenomenon. Icing can be seen as an anxious regulation of excitation, allowing it to be adjusted to avoid the anxiety of commitment or the distress of loss. The loved object, the potential partner, serves as a reservoir of excitation that is opened and closed according to one’s current tolerance.
Freud’s “fort/da” pattern (away/here), the child’s game of making the symbolic object disappear and then reappear, finds renewed relevance in this context. Icing is a digitalized fort/da. It is fort when the message becomes scarce, da when a new alert or message finally arrives. The satisfaction lies not in the bond itself, but in the mastery of its return. And as in the repetition compulsion, one replays the traumatic experience of an unstable connection, but this time from the driver’s seat: “I let you go, I bring you back, I hold you.”
Lacan, for his part, teaches that desire is never to be confused with need. It arises from a lack, expressed in the request directed toward the other. However, icing exploits this lack. Instead of satisfying the demand, it keeps it alive through absence. One offers just enough signals such as a “hey you,” a late-night emoji or a like on a story where one keeps the machinery of desire running without ever consenting to the encounter that could fulfill it.
For Winnicott, the concept of holding, the enveloping support provided to the child, helps clarify the logic of icing. In a well-functioning relationship, the other provides an environment in which experience can unfold without collapse, because the person feels supported. Shared time becomes a “potential space.”
Icing reverses this holding. Rather than providing support, it suspends. One holds the other, yes, but within a cold web, avoiding both abandonment and genuine availability. The Winnicottian false self surfaces. The icer presents an apparent version of themselves – fun, light and intermittently seductive – while in fact protecting a fearful or overwhelmed inner self. The iced person adapts, aligning with the other’s rhythm and learning to make do with crumbs.
A few contemporary scenes are enough to reveal the grammar of icing. Messages have become idioms: “Crazy week, I’ll get back to you soon,” followed by silence; “Shall we chat this weekend?” with no follow-up; “I miss you,” followed by two weeks of absence; “I promise, after this project I am all yours,” with the project never ending. Platforms offer tools for precision, such as reacting with a heart to a three-week-old message, “accidentally” viewing a story, or making a green dot shine, a sign of presence but not directed at anyone in particular.
Why does this relational style take hold? Because it serves several masters at once. It first protects against anxiety, since not choosing is a way of avoiding loss. Icing keeps the other as an option, just in case. It also serves the fantasy of omnipotence, the desire to be the one who controls the bond. Finally, it feeds on an algorithmic economy of attention, where intermittence is more addictive than constancy. An immediate response fades, while a rare sign is magnified. Icing amplifies lack. In this sense, while it flirts with strategy, it is often a symptom, a way of coping with absence, of keeping the risk of commitment at a distance, in situations where one might otherwise stumble upon one’s own truth.
Psychoanalysis teaches that the symptom is a language. Here, that language speaks of our time. First, it reveals the fragmentation of identity, sustained more by signals than by real bonds. Then, it shows the pace of life, as subjective time aligns poorly with the rhythm of digital platforms. Finally, everything becomes reversible: promise, connection, presence. When everything can be adjusted, faithfulness becomes a stranger. Yet desire does not thrive on endless adjustment; it requires a scene, a frame, an address. Through constant postponement, icing turns the scene into a corridor where one passes, returns, but never stops.
Psychoanalysis teaches that the symptom is a language. Here, that language speaks of our time. First, it reveals the fragmentation of identity, sustained more by signals than by real bonds. Then, it reflects the pace of life, as subjective time aligns poorly with the rhythm of digital platforms. Finally, everything becomes reversible: promise, connection, presence. When everything can be adjusted, faithfulness becomes a stranger. Yet desire does not thrive on endless adjustment; it requires a scene, a frame, an address. Through constant postponement, icing turns the scene into a corridor where one passes, returns, but never stops.
It is also useful to consider the psychosocial stage. Icing is a tool of control. The one who freezes holds the pendulum of the relationship. In psychoanalysis, power is always fascinated by its limits and does not know where to stop. The icer multiplies the “almosts” to reassure themselves: almost in love, almost available, almost committed, and ends up almost a person. They avoid confronting their own inner division and the uncertainty of what the encounter might bring. This avoidance comes at a cost: fatigue, boredom and emotional poverty. Coldness, while protective, does not nourish. Many icers end up depleted, because freezing, while preserving, alters the taste of what is held.
For the person being iced, the issue is the strength of desire. After being repeatedly put on hold, one begins to hold oneself back. One learns not to ask, not to insist. Desire bends, puts on a good face and becomes discreet. Yet, desire needs a voice. If it is not a cry, it is not silence either. Expressing desire is not a whim, it makes connection possible. In psychoanalytic practice, the work is to bring forth a subject who can say what they want and hear what the other wants. Freezing smothers language and imposes a language of euphemisms. We send fragments of presence and then wonder why we are not truly present.
What remains is the distinctly contemporary dimension: the algorithm. Platforms reinforce the intermittent rhythm: they reward delayed responses, magnify the smallest sign and show the “seen” status. It is a kind of economy of inevitability. While a relationship has moments of intensity and moments of calm, it requires above all moments that are fully embraced. Icing thrives on the collection of objects kept in reserve, labeled and accessible. Love and friendship, by contrast, call for leaving the cold storage behind.
To sum up, we can say that icing weakens conversation and starves the encounter. A relationship is not measured by the number of notifications but by the quality of shared time. Leaving the cold treatment does not require elaborate declarations. Sometimes a simple, clear sentence is enough: “I will be there on this day,” a straightforward answer: “yes or no,” or a consciously accepted letting go: “this connection will not happen.” It may seem small, but it is already meaningful. Love is not a freezer, it is a living kitchen. And to cook, one needs fire, even at the risk of getting burned or finally discovering the flavor.
Digital Neologisms: Between Everyday Language and the Unconscious
Doomscrolling, benching, orbiting, love bombing… These terms, born on the web, have moved into everyday language and established themselves as a new affective vocabulary. People now say things like, “At night, instead of sleeping, I doomscroll the news. It’s addictive,” to describe the irresistible urge to scroll through anxiety-provoking headlines. You bench a partner without committing, orbit a friend from a distance and endure love bombing followed by abrupt silence.
These words are more than mere tools: they crystallize the symptoms of an era in which desire fragments, fear of connection is performed and waiting itself becomes a display. They reveal strategies of avoidance, absence and intermittent desire. Today, the symptom is written in hashtags and shared, ready to go viral.
Comments