How to ruin your relationship

Yesterday I dared to say something.
It had been sitting in the back of my mind for a while, and the fact that it kept popping up—accompanied by a low-grade irritation—made me realize it mattered. I wanted to honor that. I needed to share.

I know his space is special to him. He never really had his own room to decorate how he wanted, and I didn’t want to take that away from him. But the problem was… this wasn’t just any space. It was a little nook that people pass through on their way to the healing space where I offer therapy sessions.

I get it—it doesn’t need to be spotless. But it also can’t feel chaotic. I don’t want my clients to feel unsettled just walking to their session.

Maybe it was the extra box jutting into the passageway. The dirty cups piled on top. The I Love Bali T-shirt draped over the chair for the past week. But hey—maybe he loves that shirt. If he does, I can accept that. I’ll joke, “Excuse the mess—it’s my partner’s man den. And yes, he loves Bali.”

This wasn’t about him. It was about me.
No blame. No judgment. I wanted to share how it impacted me, from my perspective, and invite a collaborative solution. How could we maintain his private sanctuary and make it semi-acceptable for people to walk through?

My body tightens. I know how hard it is to share without a clear request. But I try.

He comes home from work.
After a few minutes, I ask gently, “Are you open to hearing something that’s been on my mind?”

He says, “Sure.”

I begin:
“I’m having a hard time with the stuff piled up in the entryway. It’s embarrassing for me to walk clients through it. I know we’ve talked about wanting a house that feels like a sanctuary, and for me, part of that is cleanliness. I find myself having to make excuses.”

I add, “I’m also wondering about the I Love Bali shirt. Is it something you’re attached to, or is it just covering the chair?”

He replies, “It’s just to keep my hair from catching in the wicker.”

“Ah,” I say. “Maybe we could put a different fabric?”

I notice his body tense. He breathes in and says, “I’m just listening right now.” His face shifts—more serious.

I can tell he didn’t receive my words without some reaction.
Wanting to make sure he understood, I ask, “Can you mirror back what I said so I know you got it?”

He replies, “I heard. I’m abstaining from talking right now to listen.”

“I’m done,” I say. “Can you mirror back what I said? You know—like the Imago Dialogue?”

Imago Dialogue: Reflect. Validate. Empathize.
We’ve been practicing NVC (Non-Violent Communication). Imago is new for him, but similar. I give a quick explanation:

“You mirror back what I said. Literally just reflect it. Then validate—step onto my planet and see how it makes sense to me. Then empathize—feel into what emotion I might be experiencing.”

That was too much.
He tries: “You’re embarrassed when people walk by my space.”

“No—that’s not what I said. It’s just when clients come by.”

He says something else, but it’s not what I said. It’s not a mirror.

I wonder what filter he’s hearing me through.
“She’s calling me messy.”
“I already have to be quiet for her clients.”
“I don’t even have a real space of my own.”
Who knows?

This is why I ask for mirroring—so I know I’m understood.
But he can’t do it.
I keep requesting it, my voice growing more desperate with each request to just mirror back my words. He says, “I’m not going to be put in a box.”

And now we’re slipping. Fast.
If he’s pulling the “I’m being controlled” card when I’m just asking for a modality that supports connection… we’re headed toward escalation.

He’s on the defense.
I’m begging to be understood.

Here comes the old pattern.
The person I love doesn’t understand me. I’m spelling it out. He cannot hear me.
We’re speaking different languages. I’m pleading with a brick wall. My heart races.

This is the place where fights get ugly. I recognize it.
I walk away.
The rage is rising. I could hurt him—or myself.

Silence.
He thinks: “She walked away from me.”
I think: “I brought up something simple and now I have to break down walls just to be heard.”

I sleep alone that night, clutching the rose quartz my therapist told me to hold when I feel desperately alone. Like I’m holding the child in me whose parents never came to comfort her.

4:15 a.m. I wake. I run. I return.
He’s in the kitchen, making coffee. It’s still dark.

Before he leaves, I ask if I can say one thing:
“I need to set a boundary. I don’t want to get to the point where I’m hurting myself out of frustration. I’ve gotten so desperate to be heard I’ve hit pillows, myself, screamed, begged. I don’t want to be in that state again.”

He asks, “Do you want a hug?”

I say, “I feel disconnected, angry, and misunderstood. It’s hard for me to feel love when I feel so misunderstood.”

He hears, “I don’t love you.”

I try again:
“When I don’t feel understood, it’s hard for me to access love.”

Still, it’s not landing.
I set a boundary: I will walk away if I sense escalation. This is how I protect myself.
He responds: “Yeah, and you walked away.”

Everything I just said wasn’t heard.
He repeats, “You walked away.”

I say again: “When I ask you to use a modality so I can feel heard and only receive defense, it escalates. I walk away so I don’t hurt you or myself.”

He doesn’t hear that either.

It spirals again.
He says I’m putting him in a box.
I lose it. I scream. I beg. I hit the floor.

I just want to be mirrored. I’m imploring. Begging. Writhing.
A simple request.
I say terrible things I regret.
“Go to hell.”
“Go kill yourself.”
“Get out of my life forever.”

The pain. The pain. The pain.
I run to the room.
Squeeze my pillow.
Sob uncontrollably.

“Stop hurting me,” I cry over and over.
“I don’t deserve this.”
“My heart hurts so bad.”
“Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.”

All of this started from trying to express embarrassment about a mess.
And here we are.
The next day.
I’m writhing in pain, and he’s driving away.

What happened?
I needed to feel understood.
We didn’t use the methods that I know help.

And now, I’m reflecting:

• Do I say, “He’s too traumatized to hear me when he feels attacked”?

• Or do I say, “Carly, just sit with not being understood. Drop the modality. Swallow it.”

But I know where that leads.
Disconnection.
I swallow my needs.
We drift.
He’s no longer a safe place for my emotions.
And that’s the slow death of a relationship.

My fight to be understood comes from care.
If I didn’t care, I’d stay silent. Swallow it. Pretend everything was fine. Let the gap grow.

Or maybe…
I say: “I’m overwhelmed. I don’t feel understood. Let’s book a session with our therapist.”

Of course, that means waiting. That means a silent gap in the meantime.

Or maybe I cry in my room after the first try.
That doesn’t work either.

Honestly, I don’t know what to do.

My best guess?
Agree ahead of time on a conflict modality.
When things get tense, we use Imago. Or NVC.
We must Reflect. Validate. Empathize.
We step onto each other’s planet.

Neither of us is wrong.
We just have filters.

I don’t see another way.
I’m supposed to be the therapist here.
But tell me—what has worked for you?

This dance breaks my heart.
I see it in my clients, too.

I know criticism shuts down avoidant partners.
I’ve stripped my words of blame.
I’ve owned my side.
Still, I’m not met.

So I sit with this ache.
The deep hopelessness of not being understood.

Thich Nhat Hanh wrote:

“Understanding is the essence of love. If you cannot understand, you cannot love.”

I feel that truth in my bones.

Please, see me.
Look at me.
See my pain.

But the person I’m asking can’t see past their own.

I wish I had the answers.
I know how much I’ve grown in this relationship.
And yet…
How much pain must we endure before we emerge from the shadow into the light?

98% of the time, it’s wonderful.
But the 2%?
It can break everything.

I’ve read the books.
Studied the methods.
Earned the certifications.

And here I am.
Still learning.
Still human.
Still loving.

Still hurting.

Still hopeful.

I pull up my bootstraps and keep going.