I loved an avoidant man. I still love him.

Not casually. Not halfway. My whole heart loves him. I see him, feel him, want him, and somewhere deep inside me there was a knowing that I wanted to walk beside this particular person. 

I wanted him. And I think that is part of what made the experience so powerful, and so fucking difficult.

Because there was something else between us that made this relationship different from anything I had experienced before. We shared a deep and uncommon spiritual connection. There was a feeling of recognition between us that was difficult to explain and even harder to ignore. It wasn’t simply chemistry or attraction or the excitement of falling for someone. There were moments when it felt as though something much deeper was happening beneath the surface; something I could feel but couldn’t necessarily put into words.

And when you experience that kind of connection with someone, it is very hard not to want to dive into it.

I wanted to know where it could go. I wanted to understand it. I wanted to experience all of it. My whole being seemed to say, There is something here. Don’t walk away yet.

But that depth also meant I could feel things in him that he wasn’t always able, or willing, to say out loud. My intuition seemed to give me a kind of vision into his struggles and his wounds. I could sense the fear underneath the withdrawal, the vulnerability underneath the distance, the parts of him that wanted connection and the parts that seemed terrified of what connection might require of him.

And that made everything even more complicated.

Because when you can see someone’s wound, it becomes very easy to love the wound along with the person. You start understanding why they do what they do. You can see the frightened child underneath the adult behavior. You can sense the conflict happening inside them. And sometimes that understanding makes it much harder to say, This isn’t working for me.

I could see him.

I could feel him.

I still can.

And because I could feel what was underneath his avoidance, I kept finding reasons to stay engaged with the cycle.

At the same time, loving him triggered wounds in me I didn’t even realize were still there.

My anxiousness came alive like fire to dried-up pine resin. Things that might have barely registered with me in another relationship suddenly felt enormous. Distance felt like abandonment. Silence felt loaded. Uncertainty became almost unbearable. The more I cared, the more activated I became, and the more activated I became, the harder it was to see what was actually happening.

And so we fell into the dance.

I reached for him because I could feel him pulling away. He pulled away because he could feel me reaching for him. His distance activated my fear, and my fear activated his need for distance. And we both became triggered and then it was chaos! Then he withdrew more, and his withdrawal made me want to reach even harder, and my reaching gave him even more reason to retreat.

Round and round we went.

And because I could intuitively see some of what was happening inside him, I sometimes interpreted his behavior through the lens of compassion before I interpreted it through the lens of what it was actually doing to me.

I understood his wounds.

But understanding someone’s wounds can become a very dangerous thing when it causes you to abandon your own.

For a long time, I was in denial about my own part in it.

I could see his behavior. I could feel what his withdrawal did to me. I could point to the places where I felt dismissed, confused, shut out, misled, or left hanging. But I didn’t yet have the capacity, or maybe the willingness, to look honestly at the whole dynamic and ask what I was bringing into it.

That denial created a deep rift between us.

And eventually, something changed.

I began to see that I wasn’t the only wounded person in the room.

He had wounds too. Deep ones. Maybe more than I had ever imagined. His way of protecting himself was different from mine, but different didn’t mean healthier. I was reaching for connection because I was afraid of losing it. He was creating distance because closeness itself seemed to activate something in him.

And suddenly I could see the dance.

Not just mine.

Ours.

That realization changed me in ways I didn’t expect.

It didn’t make me stop loving him. It didn’t magically make everything okay. And it certainly didn’t mean I could blame him for my reactions.

What it did was restore something in me that I had been giving away: my self-respect. My dignity. My authority over my own experience. My divinity in myself.

I could take responsibility for my wounds without making myself the villain.

I could acknowledge where I had behaved from fear without pretending that his behavior had nothing to do with the dynamic.

I could look at him with compassion without excusing him.

And, perhaps most importantly, I could finally look at myself without either condemning myself or making him responsible for everything I was feeling.

That relationship called me to look at myself, and at another human being, in ways I never imagined I would have to.

It made me question what I thought love was. What I thought intimacy was. What I thought independence was. What I was willing to tolerate in the name of love. What I was asking another person to heal for me. And what I was allowing someone else’s wounds to make me believe about myself.

It grew me.

More than almost anything else could have.

And I will forever be grateful for this experience, and I will forever love him. But I will love me more. Because this is what love requires of us: a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves. And he taught me that. And the moral of this story is that love is explicitly tied to tolerance and patience. And personal accountability. Love is a verb, and it is demonstrated by what you do, not what you say. It is defined as putting the needs and spiritual growth of another person before your own ego.

And I’m going to tell you something: I am still failing every day at this. I suck at it. But I’m still trying. 

And it taught me something else, something I wish we talked about much more honestly when we talk about anxious and avoidant attachment:

The anxious person isn’t the only one who needs to do the work.

That is my pet peeve with so much of the conversation around attachment.

And that’s what I want to talk about.

I Call Bullshit on the Anxious Avoidant Psychobabble

I have a pet peeve about the anxious-avoidant conversation. Actually, I have a pretty big one. It seems like every time I pick up a book, listen to a podcast, read an article, or wander into the world of attachment-style therapy and psychobabble, the anxious partner somehow ends up carrying most of the blame.

They’re too needy. They’re too emotional. They’re chasing. They’re asking for too much reassurance. They’re not regulating themselves. They need to stop texting, stop pursuing, give their partner space, and work on their abandonment wounds.

And yes. Some of that is absolutely true.

Definitely the anxious partner has work to do. If you’re constantly getting panicked and triggered and overthinking everything, looking to another person to regulate your emotions, demanding reassurance, obsessively monitoring your partner’s behavior, or chasing someone who has clearly asked for space, you need to take responsibility for that. Your anxiety is yours to work on. I’m not arguing with any of that.

What pisses me off is how often the conversation stops there. Let’s fix the anxiously attached partner? WTF?

Because somehow the avoidant partner gets to show up, shut down, disappear, withhold affection, refuse difficult conversations, removing all accountability or responsibility in the relationship from themselves, send mixed signals, pull someone close and then push them away, and we’re supposed to call all of that “having boundaries.”

I’m sorry, but no.

Sometimes “I need space” genuinely means you need space. That’s healthy. We all get triggered and feel threatened or uncomfortable and we then need to step back and get grounded and regulate ourselves. We all need time alone, and secure relationships require two separate people who are allowed to have their own lives, thoughts, friends, interests, and emotional space.

But sometimes “I need space” means, I don’t know how to tolerate discomfort, accountability, and intimacy, so I’m going to create distance and then blame you for noticing it and getting triggered over my mixed signals and selfish behavior. Those are two very different things.

Let’s Talk About What Actually Happens

Here’s the pattern that bothers me.

Two people get together. One has anxious attachment and the other has avoidant attachment, because this is the most common bonding: 70%. At first, everything can feel fantastic. There is enough distance built into a new relationship that intimacy doesn’t necessarily feel threatening yet. The anxious person feels chosen, the avoidant person feels comfortable and seen, and everybody thinks they’ve finally found something nice.

Then they get closer. Things start getting real. 

The relationship becomes more serious. Someone develops deeper feelings. Someone wants more intimacy. Someone asks, “Where is this going?” And suddenly the avoidant partner starts backing away.

Maybe communication changes. Maybe they become less affectionate. Maybe they need more and more alone time. Maybe they become vague. Maybe they stop initiating. Maybe they disappear for a while and then come back as though nothing happened. Maybe they start looking for and digging up all the reasons its not going to work and how the other partner is not right for them after all. And maybe they get irritable and grumpy and hard to be around themselves in the process.

The anxious partner notices. Of course they notice. They start worrying. They ask questions. They reach out. They want reassurance. And now the avoidant partner says, “You’re being too much.”

So the anxious partner becomes even more anxious.

The avoidant partner feels even more suffocated, so they pull away even more. The anxious partner chases harder. The avoidant retreats farther. And eventually somebody discovers attachment theory and announces that the anxious person is the problem.

This is the part where I want to say, wait a fucking minute.

What happened before the anxiety showed up?

Because sometimes anxiety isn’t appearing out of nowhere. Sometimes someone is anxious because the person they’re attached to is behaving inconsistently. Sometimes they’re anxious because they don’t know where they stand. Sometimes they’re anxious because someone keeps getting close and then disappearing. Sometimes they’re anxious because they’re receiving affection one day and emotional distance the next.

Sometimes the relationship itself is producing uncertainty.

And if you repeatedly create uncertainty and then criticize someone for becoming anxious in response to it, you don’t get to pretend you’re simply an innocent bystander observing their attachment wound.

You’re a co-creator the dynamic.

The Avoidant Partner Has Wounds Too

Here’s another thing that drives me crazy. We talk endlessly about the anxious person’s childhood: their abandonment wounds, their nervous system, their hypervigilance, their fear of rejection, their need for reassurance. And all of that can be incredibly useful.

But then the avoidant person says, “I just need my independence,” and somehow everyone nods thoughtfully.

Really?

Let’s apply the same curiosity. Where did you learn that needing someone was dangerous? Where did you learn that vulnerability meant losing control? Where did you learn that closeness was something you needed to escape? Where did you learn to shut down instead of communicate? Where did you learn that disappearing was easier than having a difficult conversation? Where did you learn that love wasn’t safe and distance was protection? Who taught you that? How many relationships have you burned down doing this and blamed the other partner? 

There are reasons people become avoidant. Those reasons deserve compassion. But here’s the part I think gets missed:

Understanding where a behavior came from doesn’t make the behavior healthy.

And it certainly doesn’t make the person on the receiving end at fault and responsible for fixing it.

If your childhood taught you that intimacy isn’t safe, I’m sorry. Truly. But at some point, you’re an adult. You have to decide whether you’re going to keep making everyone around you live inside the consequences of a wound you haven’t dealt with.

That’s not cruelty.

That’s responsibility.

Avoidance Isn’t Secure Attachment

This seems almost too obvious to say, but apparently it needs saying: avoidant attachment is not secure attachment.

It is not the emotionally superior version of anxious attachment. Get a hold of yourself! 

Being able to walk away does not automatically mean you’re healthy. Not needing reassurance doesn’t automatically mean you’re secure. Being comfortable with distance doesn’t automatically mean you have good boundaries. And “appearing calm” when your NOT while another person is falling apart doesn’t necessarily mean you’re the regulated one.

Sometimes you’re calm because you’ve disconnected. Sometimes you’re calm because you don’t let yourself feel anything. Sometimes you’re calm because you’ve already emotionally left the room. And sometimes you’re not calm at all. You’re the storm creating the wreckage.

That’s not peace.

It might be avoidance.

Secure attachment isn’t, “I don’t need anyone.” Secure attachment is being able to need someone without losing yourself. Its being able to hold space for the other person, and be close to someone without feeling like you’re losing yourself. That’s a much harder thing to do.

And both people have to learn it.

Your Partner’s Anxiety May Be Telling You Something

This is where I think the anxious partner needs to be careful, too. Not every anxious feeling means your partner is doing something wrong. Sometimes your nervous system is responding to an old wound. Sometimes you’re interpreting neutral behavior as rejection. Sometimes you’re asking someone to provide a level of reassurance that no human being could sustainably provide.

That work is yours.

But here’s the other side that gets left out of so much of the conversation:

Sometimes the anxious person’s anxiety is giving you information.

Maybe your behavior actually changed. Maybe you’ve been pulling away. Maybe you’ve been sending mixed messages. Maybe you’ve avoided a conversation for weeks. Maybe you said you wanted a relationship and then started acting like you don’t. Maybe you want all the benefits of intimacy without actually being emotionally available for intimacy or wanting to have any accountability or responsibility in the relationship.

Maybe you’re triggering the very response you’re complaining about.

So before you diagnose your partner maybe you need to own your own shit.

Stop Calling Them Broken

One of the ugliest things about attachment culture is the tendency to turn someone’s attachment style into an identity.

The anxious person becomes “the broken one.” They’re needy. They’re insecure. They’re too much. They’re the one who needs to heal.

Meanwhile, the avoidant person gets to stand on the other side of the room and say, “See? This is why I need distance. This is why I can’t trust you.”

But if we’re going to call one person’s coping mechanism a wound, we should probably have the courage to look at the other person’s coping mechanism too.

The anxious partner may be trying to control the relationship because they’re afraid of losing it. The avoidant partner may be trying to control the relationship by controlling the distance and withholding connection and committment. One says, “Come closer.” The other says, “Go away.”

Both are trying to manage fear. They’re just managing it in opposite directions.

So no, I don’t think one is broken and the other is healthy.

I think they’re both wounded in different ways. And both people need to heal their wounds and grow through it.

And when they get together, they can create a relationship that continually pokes both wounds.

The Cycle Is the Problem

This is where I think we need to stop asking, “Who’s the problem?”

The anxious partner’s pursuit can trigger the avoidant partner’s need for distance. The avoidant partner’s distance can trigger the anxious partner’s fear of abandonment. The anxious partners desire for closeness can trigger the avoidant partners fear that love can’t be trusted and that closeness is a bid for vulnerability that will surely end in rejection or pain. That dynamic is full of fear on both sides. It produces more pursuit, which produces more withdrawal, which produces more fear.

Round and round they go.

Eventually both people have a very convincing story about why the other person is the problem.

The anxious partner says, “You don’t care about me. You’re going to hurt me.”

The avoidant partner says, “You won’t leave me alone and stop asking for more. You can’t just let it be what it is without having to have more and define it.”

Both may be experiencing something real. Both may also be contributing to the thing they’re complaining about.

That’s the uncomfortable part. And discomfort for me usually means you need to step in and take some responsibility for who you are and what your contributing to the situation.

If You’re Avoidant, I Have Something to Say to You

Get your shit together.

I mean that with love.

Stop hiding behind therapy language. Stop calling emotional unavailability “independence.” Stop calling withdrawal “boundaries.” Stop calling your inability to communicate “needing space.” And stop telling yourself that because your behavior is less emotionally invested and feeling than your partner’s, it is automatically healthier.

If you’re overwhelmed, say you’re overwhelmed. If you need space, ask for it clearly and tell the person when you’re coming back. If intimacy scares you, admit that. If you’re losing interest, have the fucking conversation.

If you don’t know what you want, say that instead of keeping someone in a state of emotional limbo while you figure it out.

And if you repeatedly find yourself attracted to anxious people who eventually become “too much” for you, maybe (and I’m just throwing this out there) you should examine why you keep choosing relationships that reproduce the exact dynamic you claim to hate.

Because your partner isn’t your childhood. 

And neither are you.At some point, we have to stop using our wounds as explanations and start using them as invitations to grow. Stop pouring gasoline on the fire and calling them the arsonist. 

And If You’re Anxious, This Is for You Too

Please don’t use everything I just said as evidence that your partner is definitely the asshole. That’s not the point.

You still have work to do. You still have to learn to self-regulate. You still have to stop chasing someone who has asked you for reasonable space. You still have to examine your fear of abandonment. You still have to learn that someone else’s silence doesn’t automatically mean rejection. You still have to look for the evidence in their actions and not point fingers where they are not meeting all your needs and wants.

And you have to learn to ask yourself an important question:

“Is this person actually behaving in a way that is creating insecurity, or is an old wound telling me that I am about to be abandoned?”

Sometimes the answer will be one. Sometimes it will be the other. Sometimes, unfortunately, it will be both.

That’s where the real work begins.

Maybe We Need to Stop Choosing Teams Here

I don’t think the goal is to determine whether anxious people or avoidant people are worse. That’s just another way of avoiding the actual work.

The goal is security.

Not perfection. Not never being triggered. Not never needing reassurance. Not never needing space.

Security means being able to communicate when you’re scared. It means being able to ask for what you need without making demands. It means being able to hear someone else’s needs without immediately experiencing them as an attack or evidence of something more sinsiter. It means being able to take space without disappearing. It means being able to pursue connection without abandoning yourself or being blamed for it. It means being able to repair after you’ve fucked something up.

And perhaps most importantly, it means being willing to say:

“This is my part.”

Not, “This is what you made me do.”

That’s the difference between responsibility and blame.

The Trail Runs Both Ways

Relationships are one of the clearest places we encounter our own wilderness. Someone gets close and suddenly we discover the places where we’re afraid. Someone pulls away and suddenly we discover how badly we want to be chosen. Someone asks for more and we want to run. Someone asks for commitment and we see how that makes our stomach clench and our core wound light up. Someone needs space and we want to chase.

This is why I don’t want to use attachment theory as a weapon. I want to use it as a flashlight.

Shine it on yourself. Then shine it on the relationship. Look at what you’re doing. Look at what they’re doing. Look at what happens between you.

And then ask the question that matters:

What am I responsible for here?

Not what are they responsible for. Not who started it. Not who is more wounded. Not who has the more legitimate attachment style. 

And if you’re an avoidant, chances are you don’t even know it and haven’t had the courage to look at the possibility that you might be part of the problem and might need to pony up and own your own shit before you start pointing fingers at your anxious partner. 

What is mine?

If you’re the avoidant one, that includes your avoidance. If you’re the anxious one, that includes your anxiety. Neither one gets a free pass.

Because the person you’re in a relationship with may trigger your wounds, but they are not responsible for healing them and they didn’t create them. In fact neither did you. Your both dealing with wounds you had no control over and no choice in. And you may trigger each others deepest fears and hurt. That doesn’t mean you get to blame them for the way you respond.

At some point, both people have to stop pointing across the room and start looking in the mirror.

That’s where the wilderness begins.

And that’s where the real work is.