By the time I was twenty, it had already become apparent to me that there was more to this thing called love than meets the eye.
I mean, the falling in love part—going from butterflies and sweaty palms to passion and euphoria in what seemed like an instant—was pretty easy. But it was the staying-there-and-making-it-work part that was tripping me up. I just didn’t get it. Isn’t loving someone supposed to be effortless, I wondered? Is there something I’m missing or not getting? Is there something I’m doing wrong?
While my partnerships would start off well, within a matter of months they’d become challenging in all-too-familiar ways. I’d go from feeling a sense of playfulness and discovery to a place where I found it harder and harder to feel as though my partner and I were on the same emotional page.
Our interactions would often be filled with tension, and conflict always seemed to be right around the corner. Any shared happiness felt fleeting, quickly short-circuited by my fear of what might happen next. I worried constantly that I’d say or do something wrong and mess things up.
Frequently I felt insecure and unsure. I’d feel angry or disappointed about something that happened between myself and a partner but would then doubt myself, talk myself out of my feelings and avoid addressing the matter directly with either myself or with my partner.
Longing for Connection
Although I longed for a sense of closeness and connection when a partner and I would spend time alone, I would often feel restless; it was difficult for me to be still, to arrive, to be fully present.
I had no idea how anxious I was under the surface; no sense of how much fear was affecting every part of my life. I didn’t realize that my constant running—from home, to work, to school, to the gym, and home again—was all fueled by a deep-seated, underlying fear of my emotions and of connection which prevented me from developing the deep relationships I wanted.
What I was aware of was how alone I felt. Despite my busy life, which included people I thought I was close to, something was amiss. I’d spend time with friends, family, and my partner, and afterward, I’d walk away feeling empty: a longing for connection, but not knowing what got in the way. Was it something I did? Was it something I said? Do they just not like me or find me interesting? I couldn’t put my finger on it. Why do I always end up feeling so alone?
Learning How to Stay Present
Eventually, my struggles brought me to the office of a psychotherapist who approached things quite differently from other therapists I’d previously worked with. We focused on connecting with what was going on inside of me emotionally instead of just talking about what was going on in my head.
To my surprise, I discovered just how difficult it was for me to be present with my feelings, especially when I was face-to-face with someone else.
Through the hard work of opening up to my emotional experience, I came to understand that, because of my early childhood learning, I was still unconsciously expecting that something bad would happen if I really opened up and expressed myself. The old software in my brain kept giving off warning signals: “Avoid your feelings or something bad will happen”.
I realized that if I was going to get anywhere different, including developing the loving, long-term relationship I longed for, I’d have to find a way to lean into my feelings even when it felt scary to do.
Space to Breathe
It was scary at first, sometimes overwhelming, but over time, a space inside me opened up in which I could step back and recognize when my old software was getting activated. Instead of running away or spinning around in my head, I learned to lean into and stay with my emotional experience.
I started to develop the courage to open up and express my truth—whether with romantic partners or with friends, family, clients, and colleagues—in ways that felt more aligned with who I really am and how I want to be.
Learning to Love
I also found the courage to leave a five-year relationship that I’d struggled in to risk finding a more deeply gratifying partnership, which, I’m happy to say, I eventually found with my husband, Tim.
But, while so much is better, it’s not like everything went or goes smoothly this time around. That early attachment-based software can be quite durable, and I continue to discover and contend with the different ways it shows up for me.
For instance, Tim can be more of an internal processor, more cautious about opening up and sharing what’s going on inside of him, while I can be more of an open book.
Sometimes it’s hard to read what Tim is feeling. When it’s not readily apparent, I can start to feel anxious, my nervous system (based on my early attachment wiring) anticipating that something bad is going to happen (that I’m in trouble, or that he’s withdrawing his love). In the past, I’d respond defensively with anger and complaint. But I learned over time that my anger was really covering the fear and vulnerability I felt inside—feelings that hadn’t been okay for me to show as a child.
Through therapy and ongoing self-work, I discovered that I could stretch the distance between stimulus and response: between feeling something and reacting to it. I learned to notice my discomfort, become aware as my feelings of anger or anxiety started to emerge, to recognize where it was coming from (the past), and then to calm my distress and put my feelings into words rather than indirectly acting them out. I could actually say to Tim: “When you don’t say anything, I notice that I start to feel anxious and worried about what you’re thinking.”
The benefits were twofold: I got a better handle on my experience by expressing it and, rather than feeling pushed away, Tim could move closer by empathically understanding what was going on with me. It gave him the chance to respond to the actual situation rather than to my defensive reactions that were really just coping strategies I developed long ago.
Twenty-two years into my marriage, I’m still learning how my early wiring shows up. It happens in more subtle ways now than it used to. But, it’s all the same stuff: fear.
It’s been an ongoing process for me—my life’s work really—to become more mindful in all of my interpersonal relationships. The process has gotten easier over time but continues to be illuminating as I peel away the onion layers of my psyche.
This exploration has given me the awareness and skills to connect with a partner who is more emotionally available than any partner I’ve had previously.
Developing what I call “emotional mindfulness” isn’t an all-or-nothing skill. It’s a process that, with repeated practice, gets stronger over time. I should know: my exploration of my own issues is what inspired me to become a psychologist and to help others on their transformational journeys
