People Ask Me All the Time, and I'm Tired of Being Polite About It
Wednesday, July 23, 2025. This is for Charity and Paul.
They ask me at barbecues. In parking lots. Sometimes, in a whisper, after two glasses of wine at their sister’s wedding:
“So… what’s really the biggest problem you see in couples?”
There’s usually a nervous laugh, like they’re bracing for me to say “sex” and make it a punchline. A quick laugh, and then we’re back to the potato salad.
But lately, for some reason, I’ve stopped giving the polite answer.
Because the real answer is quieter. Slower. And much more insidious and inappropriate to discuss at parties.
The biggest problem I see in couples—the one that quietly wears love down—is simply this:
At some point, people stop being willing to be changed by the relationship.
That’s it. That’s the slow turn. The little hinge that swings a big, heavy door.
Not because they’re bad or selfish. Usually, it’s just fear.
Fear of being seen too clearly. Or fear of disappearing into someone else’s needs.
So they armor up. The jokes get sharper. The confessions get fewer. Sex becomes… functional and infrequent.
The other partner notices. They try harder. They might protest. They might get quiet. Or they might pick a fight just to feel something—anything—that says, you still matter to me.
And then it begins: the quiet drift into emotional exile.
You take your corners. You share a mortgage, a dog, maybe a calendar. But not yourselves. Not anymore.
You build silos of self-righteousness. Some of you with weaker boundaries tell your friends your version of the story. You rehearse your closing argument just in case therapy ever starts to feel like court.
But no jury is coming. Just me with a notepad.
And the quiet hum of two people wondering what happened.
I once worked with a couple—we’ll call them Molly and Austin. They came in wearing matching blank expressions and emotional body armor.
Molly said, “He doesn’t talk to me anymore.”
Austin said, “Every time I do, she gets upset.”
She wanted connection. He wanted calm. So she pursued. He retreated. And they’d been dancing that choreography for seven years.
I asked, gently, “What are you protecting?”
They looked startled. Like I’d asked for their passwords.
But that’s the real question, isn’t it? Not “who’s right.” Not “who started it.” But:
What are you protecting that’s costing you closeness?
Your pride?
Your narrative?
An inherited idea of marriage that never quite worked for your parents, either?
Folks also ask me if relationships get easier with time.
Not exactly. They get more honest. Or they simply don’t endure.
The couples who stay together aren’t the ones who never argue. They’re the ones who learn to argue differently.
They stop trying to win and start trying to understand.
They get curious. They say things like:
“That landed wrong, didn’t it?”
“I was scared, and I handled it poorly.”
“I thought I was protecting myself, but I think I just shut you out.”
They realize love isn’t something you earn by being clever or consistent.
It’s something you sustain by being humble and willing to grow.
Because here’s the part nobody really wants to hear at a barbecue:
Couples therapy doesn’t work because of better communication techniques.
It works when people rediscover humility. Not performative humility—( i.e. the Instagram kind).
I’m talking about real humility.
The kind that lets you say:
“I think I confused control with safety.”
“I was more interested in being right than being close.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. But I did. And I want to do better.”
That’s where the healing starts. Not because your partner suddenly changes—but because you do.
And sometimes, that shift opens the door to falling in love again—with a partner who’s been waiting for you just on the other side of your own defenses.
So, when people ask me what I see most often in couples?
I tell them, when they’re ready:
The willingness to be changed is at the heart of it all.
And, gentle reader, it’s never too late to begin again. I can help with that.
Be Well. Stay kind, and Godspeed.