Attachment to Clarity

You know the song Clarity by Zedd that talks about fighting fear for a selfish pain/ 'cause you are a piece of me I wish I didn't need/if our love is tragedy why are you my remedy?

"Clarity" is the ultimate anthem for painful magnetic relationships. It captures that exhausting, dizzying loop of trying to break up and being pulled back in, where two people know they don't work for each other but they simply cannot stay away.

Ironically I first heard this song while on a date with an ex in which our relationship mirrored this dynamic exactly. It became our theme song long after we broke up (and after the second time we broke up too). It was actually painful to listen to for a long time.

We know this about me (I talk about it often): I'm an ENFJ. I love passionately and intentionally. I tend to carry more than my share of the emotional load in relationships. But it's deeper than this. This "Clarity" level of codependency comes from attachment trauma (childhood trauma or past relational trauma).

Here's the interesting science lesson. Attachment trauma physically rewires the brain's reward centers. In an unhealthy relationship where the other person provides intermittent reinforcement, affection and safety are given completely unpredictably. This triggers massive spikes of cortisol (stress) followed by floods of dopamine and oxytocin (pleasure) when the partner finally engages positively. The "remedy" is literally a biological hit. The brain becomes physically addicted to the relief of the reconciliation/attention/validation, mistaking the end of the stressful feeling for "love."

Psychology talks about how we often reenact past traumas as a means to fix them, ie. maybe this time we can change how it ends. It's about believing that if we can finally make this person love us securely, it will retroactively heal the original wound. It is an emotional suicide mission because you cannot fix a broken foundation by building a house on it.

Loss has a way of waking up attachment wounds we thought we had long since outgrown. When we experience a significant loss, whether it’s the end of a relationship, the death of a loved one, a betrayal, or even a major life transition, the nervous system often doesn’t compartmentalize it neatly. It can reactivate older fears of abandonment, rejection, instability, or disconnection that were never fully resolved.

In that state, the attachment system becomes more sensitive. We may find ourselves thinking about old relationships, longing for people from our past, becoming preoccupied with connection, or feeling disproportionately affected by ambiguity and distance. The intensity can feel like it’s about the present moment, when in reality the present loss is touching something much older.

But what I’ve learned since that unhealthy relationship (and a few more subsequent ones) is that intensity is not the same thing as love/care. And that my nervous system can confuse familiarity, urgency, and relief for connection.

The work is learning to notice being in that loop and letting things stay unclear long enough for the intensity to settle into truth.

A long steady romantic relationship definitely helps, but I still get triggered. The difference now is not that the pattern disappeared, but I can recognize it while it's happening.

It’s Not Your Fault if Someone Hurts You

With regards to relationships, we talk a lot about trust. Earning it. Breaking it. Rebuilding it. But there’s something we don’t say enough:

If you trust someone who ends up hurting you, that’s not your fault.

Let me say that again, in case you need to hear it louder:

IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT.

You are allowed to trust people. You are allowed to believe someone when they tell you they care about you. You are allowed to lean into closeness, to choose connection, to give someone access to your heart without being blamed later for their betrayal.

I have a client who started dating someone and really wanted to build something meaningful with her. But early in their relationship, he found out she had been talking to other guys in ways that felt flirtatious and crossed boundaries. When he brought it up, she told him she just believed guys and girls could be close friends, and she hadn’t really thought it was a big deal.

It was a big deal to him. It hurt. It wasn't aligned with his relationship values.

But they kept talking. She listened. And as their relationship grew more serious, she began to make changes—on her own. She stopped communicating with those guys, unfollowed and/or blocked them, and began checking in with him when one of them reached out. She even offered to give him her phone password—not because he asked, but because she wanted him to feel safe again.

She’s done a lot to earn his trust back. But even now, months later, he still struggles.

Because she hurt him once, and now he lives in fear of it happening again. That fear—though understandable—is getting in the way of their connection. It’s keeping one foot in the door, just in case. It’s making it hard for him to believe that she won’t do it again, even though she’s shown every sign of growth and commitment.

This is the trap of broken trust: we start believing that if we hurt, it must be because we weren’t careful enough. That maybe we should have guarded our heart more. That next time, we won’t be so easily fooled.

But that kind of thinking doesn’t protect us. It just punishes us for being human.

Because here’s the truth: If someone hasn’t given you a reason not to trust them, you don’t owe them suspicion.

And even if they once did break your trust—but have since done the work to rebuild it—you get to decide whether you want to stay, and if you stay, how to let yourself live fully in that choice. Even more so if others in your life caused you to build this narrative and belief that you can't trust people, don't apply that as a general rule.

You don’t have to keep bracing for betrayal just to prove you’re strong. You’re not weak for trusting. You’re not naive for believing someone can change. You’re not foolish for choosing to love.

If someone breaks your heart, the pain is real, but the blame is not yours to carry.

So let me give you permission—

To trust. To hope. To love. Even when there’s risk involved.

To stay soft even after being hurt. And to stop punishing yourself for what someone else chose to do.

You deserve connection.

You deserve peace.

You deserve to stop questioning whether it was your fault.

It wasn’t.

Benched

If today feels like it might never end, I must remember it's but a blip in time. It feels interminable, but in reality it's a page in a longer story. 

Benched, but not forgotten. Watching, waiting, resting. Knowing the game isn't over yet.

There’s a kind of ache that stretches time, that makes minutes feel like hours, and hours feel like they might just swallow you whole. It's the pain of waiting, the painting of days in shades of loss, of the unknown. Of grieving and hoping in the same breath, over and over again.

Right now, this day feels defining. Heavy. Like it might be etched into the architecture of life forever. And maybe in some ways it will be. But not the way it feels right now—not in the way pain insists it will always matter this loudly.

The truth is—today is only one thread in the big tapestry.

But it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like everything. It feels like it defines me. But somewhere far off, future me will glance back at this moment and barely remember the exact contours of this quiet mess, or which emotion came first. The rawness will soften. The sharp edges will dull.

This moment, where I feel like I’m drowning, is actually a gasp for air between laps.

It reminds me of the space between heartbeats. Silent, easy to miss, but vital. The beat matters—but so does the pause. The quiet between. The place where nothing is certain but life is still happening.

I don’t know what’s coming. I don’t know if hope will be realized or how long it will take. I don't know if things will just have to evolve and adjust. I just know that time doesn’t freeze, no matter how much grief or longing tries to convince me it has. It moves. Even now, it moves. And I have to believe that good will come. 

And someday, today will be part of the before. Just a brushstroke in the painting. A foggy memory that once felt enormous but now fits inside something larger—something lived through, a step along the path.

So I breathe. Mark the letting go. I hope, or try to. I remind myself that I am still here. Life's still in motion. I'm not standing still with everyone else moving around me. My path is just different than I thought it would be.

This is the quiet between heartbeats.

And here, life is waiting.

On the bench before play, waiting for my turn, knowing it will come when it's time. 

The Quiet Between Hearbeats

Dear Me, the One Who Waits,

I see you. Sitting in the in-between. Not where you were, not yet where you long to be. Caught in the aching middle, where hope and grief live side by side and every day feels like too much and not enough.

You didn’t choose this. You didn’t ask to become familiar with this kind of waiting—the kind that bleeds, the kind that reminds you over and over that you are not in control. And yet, here you are. Still showing up. Still hoping. Still breathing, even when it hurts.

I know you’re tired of being patient. Tired of aching. Tired of the silence when you’re begging things to speak in signs of life, of readiness, of possibility. Tired of feeling like you’re stuck while the world moves on.

But I want you to know: you are doing more than enough. You are holding space for dreams and for pain at the same time, and that is a holy kind of strength. You are not broken, even if you feel like a puzzle with missing pieces. You are healing, even if it’s slow and messy and invisible.

It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to grieve the version of life you thought you’d be living by now. And it’s okay to still want—to still try. Wanting doesn’t make you ungrateful. Hoping doesn’t make you naive. It makes you brave.

So today, rest if you can. Cry if you must. Dream if you dare. And when tomorrow comes, you’ll meet it exactly as you are—waiting, hoping. 

With all my love,

Me

Yield

Autopilot off. 

It's new and it's familiar all at once. I know how to drive, but now I'm driving a car with two steering wheels. It's a new task, one to which I can apply skills I already have...if I'm willing to tweak them, and to be patient with the learning curve.

Getting married older has so many advantages (perhaps more on that another time), but it also has its challenges. Like everything in life. There's a way of living that developed by having only me to take care of, and be responsible for, for all those years. There was a comfort in that. Don't get me wrong, I'm so happy to share my life with someone. I'm ecstatic to have someone to give to. It's just different.

We're born essentially selfish. As a baby, we're conditioned to take, to receive. Our life depends on it. As we become adults we learn how to give and how to help others. We figure out our place in the world. As an older single, we learn how to take care of ourselves. How essential that is. We develop patterns in our lives based around our needs. It is survival.

The longer you do something, the more ingrained it becomes. And so I have to readjust my mirrors and change my seat position. The focus is different. The driving is different.

As I yield, leaning into the turn as the lanes merge, I'm met with a euphoria. Finally, I get to share my ride. It's no longer a lonely bumpy road. It's not a gallop into the sunset either, mind you. It's a lesson in patience, in hard work, emotional work sometimes, but it's worth it.

Ride with me, and we can explore the road together.