Somewhere along the way, so did I. I never learned how to go quiet, walk into my room, and let her win. I learned to keep fighting. Keep pushing for resolution, no matter what it cost.

I married a pleaser. The one who hates arguing. The one who’d rather let something go than fight back. He was the middle child — and somewhere in that house, he learned that quiet was safer than pushing.

Two people, two totally different survival strategies, walking into every disagreement like clockwork.

It took us years to see it. But once we did, it changed everything. Because most of the time — honestly, all of the time — our fights weren’t really about the thing we were fighting about. They were about the pattern. I’d want to talk. He’d want to disappear. Same shape, different topic, every time.

Sound familiar?

That’s the thing about patterns. They don’t care what you’re arguing about. They’ll use money, sex, parenting, in-laws — whatever is available.

I spent years reading books on “I” statements. Learning to listen better. Promising not to raise my voice.

None of it touched the actual problem.

You can’t fix a pattern by winning an argument. You have to interrupt the pattern itself.

After twelve years of doing this work, I keep seeing the same three patterns show up in almost everyone I work with.

The Chaser. That’s me. Something feels off, you have to fix it right now. You bring it up, you ask questions, you push for resolution. The more your partner pulls away, the harder you push. Not because you’re controlling. Because you’re terrified of disconnection.

The Ghoster. Conflict starts, you disappear. Maybe out the door, maybe just behind your eyes. You tell yourself you need space. That you’re protecting the relationship. Meanwhile your partner is experiencing your silence as abandonment.

The Pleaser. You smooth it over. Say yes when you mean no. Tell yourself keeping the peace is easier than having the conversation. Everything looks fine from the outside. Resentment is building quietly on the inside.

None of it makes you a bad partner. It makes you human.

These patterns made sense once. Mine kept me connected to a mother who wouldn’t back down. His kept him safe in a house full of louder voices. They were smart strategies for two kids who didn’t get to choose the homes they grew up in.

But you’re not in that house anymore. And the strategy that kept you safe then might be the exact thing quietly wrecking your relationship now.

Here’s where things finally change.

The moment you can name your pattern, you stop running it on autopilot. You see the cycle instead of getting swept up inside it.

And once you can see it, you can interrupt it.

That’s the entire idea behind my course, Breaking the Pattern.

It’s not another course on communication skills. It’s a self-paced program that helps you find the pattern actually running your relationship, understand where it came from, and get real tools to interrupt it before it hijacks your next conversation.

Because the goal was never to have a better fight.

The goal is to understand the kid who’s still calling the shots.

If you want to learn more, I’d love you to join me HERE. 🧡

.

They just think they’re the only ones.

So I thought…

What if there were a place where people could come together to talk about these things honestly?

Not to be judged.

Not because anyone needs fixing.

Just to understand ourselves—and each other—a little better.

That’s what I’m hoping to create.

I’m inviting you to join me for a live conversation where I’ll share one practical relationship idea, we’ll explore it together, and you’ll leave with something you can start using right away.

We’ll begin with a topic I come back to again and again with clients:

What You’re Really Fighting About

Here’s the thing…it usually starts with something small.

The dishes.

Someone running late.

Who forgot to call the plumber.

Except it’s rarely about the dishes.

It’s about the meaning we attach to those moments—and what they stir up in us.

If you’ve ever wondered why small disagreements can turn into bigger arguments, I’d love for you to join us.

Whether you’re single, dating, married, divorced, or somewhere in between, we’ll explore what’s really happening beneath the surface—and how understanding it can change the conversations that matter most.

Tuesday, August 4
12:00–1:30 p.m. ET

Live on Zoom

$47 per person • Limited to 12 people

No refunds, but you are welcome to gift your spot to a friend.

🔗 https://luma.com/u6d25ziq

I’d love to have you there.

Warmly,

Lisa

Apparently this has been happening for years. I honestly don’t even notice I’m doing it.

My husband does.

He’ll walk through the kitchen, quietly close the door, and keep going.

No lecture.

No “Seriously?”

No dramatic sigh. Just… closes it.

It made me laugh because I realized something.

Every couple has their thing.

Maybe yours is the dishwasher.

Or the towels on the floor.

Or the toothpaste squeezed from the middle.

Maybe one of you is standing by the front door with keys in hand while the other is still wandering around looking for shoes.

Maybe one of you wants to talk everything through while the other needs an hour before they even know what they think.

None of those things are really the problem. They’re just what happens when two different people decide to build one life together.

Somewhere along the way, I realized I had a choice. I could spend my marriage keeping score over the little things… or I could notice all the things he does that make my life easier.

He notices things I don’t. He takes care of things I never even think about. And I’m sure there are a hundred things I do that he’s quietly decided aren’t worth mentioning anymore.

That’s marriage.

Not finding someone who never gets on your nerves. Finding someone whose good is so much bigger than the handful of things that aren’t.

I think we get ourselves into trouble when we make little things feel big.

The towel on the floor becomes, “You don’t respect me.” The dishwasher becomes, “You never listen.” The refrigerator door becomes a personality flaw.

Sometimes…

It’s just a refrigerator door.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not talking about lowering your standards. If someone is disrespectful, dishonest, or cruel, that’s different. I’m talking about the everyday stuff that slowly steals the joy from otherwise good relationships.

Don’t lower your standards. Shift your attention.

I’ve found that what I pay attention to grows. If I spend all day noticing what’s wrong, my relationship starts to feel wrong. If I notice what’s right, I experience my relationship differently—even though nothing about my husband has changed.

Turns out, neither of us needed to become a different person.

We just needed to stop expecting the other one to be.

And yes, I still leave the refrigerator door open.

He still quietly closes it.

I have a feeling we’ll be doing that twenty years from now.

Honestly, I hope so.

🧡

If this resonates with you, this is exactly the kind of work I do with my coaching clients.

Not helping people lower their standards.

Helping them shift their attention, understand themselves better, and create relationships that feel calmer, lighter, and a whole lot less complicated.

Sometimes changing a relationship doesn’t start by changing your partner.

It starts by changing the way you show up.

If you’re interested, send a message and let’s chat! lisabairdhoey.com

For years, I thought my husband was too defensive. I'd bring up something that bothered me, and before I even finished, he'd start explaining himself. It drove me crazy. I wasn't looking for an explanation. I wanted him to understand why I was hurt.

He'd get frustrated because he felt like he was being criticized. I'd get frustrated because I didn't feel heard.

This became our pattern.

I'd criticize. He'd defend. I'd criticize a little more because I still didn't feel heard. He'd become even more defensive because he felt even more attacked.

Around and around we'd go.

At the time, I thought we were arguing about whatever had happened that day. Maybe he forgot something I'd asked him to do. Maybe I misunderstood something he said. Maybe one of us was tired or stressed. Looking back, none of those things were really the problem. We were repeating the same pattern.

And here's what I've learned about patterns.

They don't care what you're arguing about.

The topic changes.

The pattern doesn't.

They'll use whatever topic is available — money, the kids, vacation plans, a forgotten errand, a comment that came out wrong.

As part of my training to teach Gottman's Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work, I spent a lot of time immersed in their research. I expected to learn tools that would help my clients. Instead, I found myself thinking about my own marriage. The more I learned, the more I realized this wasn't just something I was going to teach.

It was something I needed to practice.

The Gottman’s identified four destructive communication patterns that quietly damage relationships over time: Criticism. Defensiveness. Contempt. Stonewalling.

I could immediately see ours.

The Pattern I Bring

If I'm honest... this one is mine. Criticism. Ouch.

For years, I told myself I wasn’t criticizing him — I was trying to get him to understand me. Unfortunately, those two things don’t always sound the same. There’s a big difference between saying, “It hurt my feelings when that happened,” and “You never think about anyone but yourself.” One talks about a behavior. The other attacks the person.

What he heard, though, was: “I’m failing.” No wonder he got defensive.

That realization didn't change me overnight. I still slip into criticism. But now I recognize it much sooner, pause, and say something different.

The Pattern He Brings

Defensiveness. This one belongs to my husband.

The second he feels blamed, he starts explaining. I used to read that as him not listening. Now I see it differently — he was protecting himself. Neither of us was trying to hurt the other. We were both just trying to be understood.

His defensiveness isn’t something that happens in a vacuum, either. My criticism was often inviting it. That doesn’t mean I’m responsible for his reaction. But it does mean I have more influence than I realized. I still catch myself wishing he'd stop defending himself. But I've learned that's the wrong place to focus. Instead, I ask myself:

Am I about to invite a conversation? Or am I about to invite a defense?

Not because I'm trying to be perfect. Because it's the one part of the pattern I actually control.

Here's the good news. He's working on it too. He's learning to listen before he explains. I'm learning to soften my criticism before I speak. We don't get it right every time. But we catch ourselves a whole lot faster than we used to. And that's changed our relationship.

The Pattern That Scares Me Most

Contempt. This one is frightening. Not because we've never done it. Because we have.

It's the eye roll. The sarcastic comment. The huff. The shrug. Turning away while the other person is still talking.

Those moments might seem small.

They're not.

They send a message: “I don't respect you right now.” “I'm done listening.” “You're not worth my kindness in this moment.”

You don't have to say those words out loud. Your body says them for you.

When I catch myself doing it — or I see my husband doing it — I know we need to hit pause. Not because our marriage is falling apart. Because contempt has a way of quietly creating distance between two people. We've worked really hard to keep it out of how we communicate. Not because we're perfect. Because we know where it leads if we don't.

The Pattern That Looks Like Peace... But Isn't

Stonewalling. Some people fight by getting louder. Others just disappear.

In our house, it goes both ways. Sometimes it’s me — I go quiet, I stop making eye contact, I find something to do in another room. Sometimes it’s him — he gets that flat, far-off look, like he’s already left the conversation even though he’s still standing there.

From the outside, it can look calm.

It isn’t.

It’s overwhelm, dressed up as peace.

I used to think the answer was to keep talking — to not let him leave the conversation. That backfired every time. The more I pushed, the more he pulled back. And when I’m the one shutting down, I know exactly what it feels like when he does the same thing to me.

The healthiest thing isn’t forcing it. It’s taking a break and promising to come back: “I need a little time to calm down, but I promise we’ll finish this conversation.”

Your Turn

The goal isn’t to stop having the same fight. The goal is to catch your pattern one beat sooner than last time.

The criticism before it leaves your mouth. The defensiveness before it kicks in. The eye roll before it happens. That’s the shift. Not becoming a different person — just catching yourself earlier.

That’s where your power is.

Which pattern do you bring into your relationship?

The goal isn't to stop having the same fight.

The goal is to stop repeating the same pattern inside the fight.

Ready to Break the Pattern?

One article can't undo years of repeating the same pattern. Trust me — I know.

Patterns take awareness. Practice. And doing it differently anyway.

That's exactly why I created Breaking the Pattern. It's the process I use to help people recognize the patterns keeping their relationships stuck — and learn how to change their side of them.

Change your side of the pattern, and the relationship gets a chance to change too.

If you're ready to stop having the same fight over and over, I'd love to help.

P.S. If you recognized yourself anywhere in this, don't be discouraged. Recognizing the pattern isn't a sign your relationship is broken — it's the first step toward changing it. That's exactly why I created Breaking the Pattern. Learn more about it here.

Happiness is an inside job. Once you see what you’re actually bringing to the relationship, you can’t unsee it.

Last week I asked my husband a simple favor. His response made me feel like I’d asked him to sever a limb. He made a comment — in a tone — and just like that, our pattern began.

I got mad. He shut down. I got madder that he was shutting down. And so on.

Classic pursuer-withdrawer. I pursue, he distances. I pursue harder. He distances more. We’ve been doing this dance for years.

Here’s what was actually happening underneath: he feels like I’m controlling (I kinda am). I feel like he’s selfish (he occasionally is). Neither of us is wrong. Neither of us is right. We’re just two people with different nervous systems, different attachment histories, and a very predictable pattern.

It was never about the favor.

It never is.

The Gottman’s calls these moments “regrettable incidents.” What’s underneath mine is a bid for connection that went sideways. I asked for something small. What I actually wanted was to feel like a priority. When he reacted the way he did, my brain heard: you don’t matter. So I got loud.

And when I get big and loud, he becomes a turtle and pulls into his shell. Which is its own kind of bid — his way of saying I can’t take any more right now. But to me it reads as abandonment. So I push harder.

Neither of us is trying to hurt the other. We’re both just trying to feel okay.

That’s the thing nobody tells you about conflict. It’s almost never about the thing. It’s about the story you’re telling yourself about what the thing means.

But after years of practicing this — really practicing it — something shifted.

I saw it happening in real time. I noticed the pattern. I understood why. And I chose to stop pushing.

Not because I was wrong. Not because he was right. Because I’ve learned that I can be right — in my mind — or I can be happy. I can’t always be both.

That’s not weakness. That’s not stuffing it down. That’s what Gottman calls physiological self-soothing — choosing to step out of the flood before it takes you somewhere you don’t want to go.

The day wasn’t ruined. The crisis (fight) was averted.

This is the work. Not the dramatic breakthroughs. Not the big revelations. The tiny moment where you see the pattern coming and you make a different choice.

That’s the inside job.

And once you do it once, you can do it again.

P.S. If you’re interested in learning what your pattern is — and how to break it — I’ve created a course to help: https://lisa-hoey.mykajabi.com/register-to-break-the-pattern

Your partner doesn’t text back. They seem distracted when you’re talking. They forget something that mattered to you, or make an offhand comment that lands completely wrong. And in that split second, before either of you has said a word, a thought appears — almost too fast to catch.

I don’t matter. They don’t care. Here we go again. I’m doing this alone.

That thought creates a feeling. The feeling creates a behavior. And the behavior creates the fight you’ll spend the next hour having about dishes, money, parenting, or whatever topic happened to be available when everything boiled over.

But the fight was never about the dishes. It started with the story you told yourself before anyone raised their voice.

This is why so many couples keep having the same argument over and over — different topic, same pattern underneath. Because the real problem isn’t what happened. It’s what happened inside of you right after it happened, in that tiny window before you even opened your mouth.

Most people spend years trying to change their partner while completely missing the pattern that’s actually running the relationship. And I get it — it’s so much easier to focus on what the other person is doing wrong than to look at what’s happening inside yourself. But that’s also why nothing changes.

The moment you start paying attention to your own thoughts, feelings, and reactions — really paying attention — everything shifts. Because you can’t control your partner. But you can absolutely learn to recognize the pattern before it turns into another exhausting round of the same fight you’ve already had a hundred times.

And once you see it, you genuinely can’t unsee it.

So the next time you feel yourself getting irritated or defensive or quietly resentful, try asking yourself: What story am I telling myself right now? That’s usually where the trouble actually started. And it’s also where the healing begins — because when you own your side of the story, the power comes back to you.

—

If you keep recognizing yourself in this pattern and you’re ready to actually break it, I have a 90-minute session designed to do exactly that — get clear on what’s driving the cycle and leave with a real plan. Reach out to me here.

But here’s what I’ve figured out after a lot of years of being married — twice — and a lot of years doing this work: the quality of my marriage has everything to do with how happy I am with myself. Not with him. With me.

When I’m in a good place — when I’m busy, challenged, working on something that matters to me — I’m easy to live with. I’m nicer. The socks on the floor don’t bother me as much. The way he loads the dishwasher (wrong, by the way) doesn’t drive me nuts.

But when I’m not happy with myself? I’m a total pain in the ass.

Suddenly I notice everything. The way he chews. The tone in his voice. The fact that he’s sitting on the couch while I’m making dinner. I get picky. I get controlling. I start managing him like he’s a project that needs fixing.

And for a long time, I blamed him. I blamed my first husband too. It wasn’t until I caught myself blaming my second husband for the exact same things that it hit me: the problem was me.

It took me embarrassingly long to see the pattern. He hadn’t changed. I had. Nothing about my husband was different on the days I couldn’t stand him versus the days I adored him. The only variable in that equation was me.

So now when I catch myself nitpicking — and I still catch myself regularly — I’ve learned to stop and ask a different question. Not “why is he like this?” but “what’s going on with me?”

And the answer, more often than not, is that I’m bored. I’m not challenged enough. I’ve stopped putting my focus where it belongs — my writing, my coaching, the work that fills me up — and started putting it on him instead. I make him my project. So it ends up landing on him as criticism. He just happens to be the closest target.

That realization changed how I operate. When the grumpiness shows up, I don’t start a conversation about his flaws anymore. I start looking at my own life. What am I working toward right now? When’s the last time I did something hard? Something that was just mine? Something I felt proud of?

But here’s the thing nobody tells you: your husband cannot make you happy. He can love you. He can show up for you. He can be a genuinely good man — mine is. And you can still feel miserable if your own life feels empty. And that misery will find a place to land. It always does.

Staying in my own lane has become the single most important thing I do for my marriage. Not date nights. Not communication techniques. Just paying attention to my own happiness and taking responsibility for it, instead of outsourcing that job to him and then resenting him when he can’t do it.

I didn’t become a better wife by trying harder at being a wife. I became a better wife by building a life I actually like — and discovering that when I’m good with me, I’m a whole lot easier to love.

So if you’ve been picking at your person lately, before you start the conversation about everything they’re doing wrong, try this first: look in the mirror. Ask what’s going on in there.

That’s usually where the answer is.

You can go to therapy, read all the books, do all the work on your relationship — and still feel like something’s just not right. Like you’re trying really hard but nothing’s quite clicking.

And a lot of the time, it’s because we skip the most important step. We’re so focused on fixing things with the other person that we never stop to check in with ourselves first.

So what does that actually mean?

It means knowing what you want. What you’re okay with and what you’re not. What you actually think and feel — not what you think you’re supposed to.

I spent a lot of years being really good at keeping everyone else happy. Smoothing things over, avoiding conflict, making sure the vibe was okay. What I wasn’t doing was being honest with myself about what I needed. I hadn’t even really asked.

And when you don’t know yourself that well, it sneaks into everything. You say yes when you mean no. You go along with things and feel quietly resentful about it. You look up one day and realize you’re not even sure what you want anymore.

Some truthful questions I had to ask myself

What do I actually believe, separate from what I grew up believing?

What am I tolerating that I’ve just kind of accepted as normal?

When I make a decision, am I doing it because I want to, or because it feels easier?

You don’t have to have the answers. Just getting curious is enough.

I didn’t learn this by watching other people. I learned it the hard way, same as most things worth knowing.

Except he came back inside because he’d forgotten his wallet.

I looked at him and said, quietly, you don’t have to take your stress out on me.

He picked up a bottle of liquid Tylenol — pink, children’s Tylenol — and threw it against the wall. It exploded. That bright pink ran down my brand new yellow kitchen walls.

And then he said go fuck yourself. And walked out.

I stood in that kitchen and waited for the feeling I was used to. Because the old me would have run outside after him. Called him. Texted him. Told him exactly what kind of person he was. I would have kept the fight going and going and going.

But that didn’t happen.

What came instead was the strangest, quietest sense of peace I had ever felt. Not relief. Not anger. Just clarity. Like something that had been whispering to me for years had finally decided to speak up.

It’s time, Lisa.

On the outside my life looked beautiful. The house, the car, the country club. Everything that was supposed to mean you had made it.

On the inside I was miserable. And I had been for a long time. I just hadn’t been willing to say it out loud — not even to myself.

That morning I made a decision. Not out of anger, not out of fear, but out of something that felt more like knowing. I was done. And I wasn’t afraid of what that meant anymore.

Within a few months I asked my husband for a divorce. I sold the house. Moved into a small apartment with the kids. Left the country club. Traded in the car. Quit my job in fundraising. Enrolled in a year-long coaching program with Martha Beck so I could build a business and a life that actually meant something to me.

I didn’t blow up my life because I was angry. I rebuilt it because I finally trusted myself enough to listen to that quiet voice that had been trying to get my attention for years.

The hardest part wasn’t leaving. It was being strong enough to walk away from a life I was living for the outside world and not for the inside me.

When you know your truth — really know it — you stop second guessing what you should do. You stop asking everyone else for permission. You stop waiting for things to get better on their own. You just know. And that knowing is the most important relationship you will ever have — the one with yourself.

Turns out I was so far behind that I had to repeat third grade.

That was the moment I decided I wasn’t smart enough. Not just behind — not smart enough. And I carried that belief straight into middle school, where I did what a lot of us do when we’re hurting and don’t know how to say it.

I aimed it outward.

By seventh grade I had become the kind of girl nobody wanted to cross. I started a club dedicated to making one girl’s life miserable. Her crime? A pair of jeans I decided I didn’t like. I showed up to a slumber party with bracelets for everyone — everyone except her. A way of showing the world whose side you were on without saying a word.

The irony is that at that same party, I fell into the lake. Everyone laughed. And for one brief moment I got a small taste of exactly what I had been dishing out.

Looking back it’s almost hard to believe. But at the time it felt like power. And power was the one thing I didn’t have anywhere else.

It escalated enough to get me suspended. The Headmaster called both of us into his office — me and the girl I had been targeting — and she was given the chance to say everything she’d been holding back. She told me I was mean, hateful, and someone no one actually liked. And when the Headmaster asked me why I’d chosen her specifically, I had nothing. Not one thing.

That silence changed me.

Because in that moment I couldn’t hide from it anymore. It wasn’t about her jeans or anything she had done. It was about a girl who didn’t feel like enough and had no idea how to say that out loud: me.

What I know now — and what took me years to fully understand — is that when we’re hurting, we find someone else to take it out on. We go after the people around us not because of anything they’ve done, but because it’s so much easier than turning inward and asking the harder question.

What is this really about?

For me it was about feeling small in a world that expected me to be big. And until I was willing to look at that honestly, I kept making other people pay for it.

A few years ago I tracked down the girl I had bullied and called to apologize. She was gracious about it. She told me it wasn’t as bad as I remembered.

But it was bad enough that I’ve never quite forgiven myself.

Have you ever found yourself taking something out on someone who didn’t deserve it? Tell me in the comments I have a feeling I’m not the only one.

About a month ago I was traveling for ten days straight — first to Chicago for a family reunion, then to Columbus for my 40th high school reunion. Family, friends, always on, always listening, always present for everyone around me.

The night of the big class reunion, a small group of my closest friends met for cocktails first. And honestly, even that felt like a lot. I was already emotionally fatigued going into it.

Then, we went to the whole-class party (most of my graduating class from an all- girls school) — and something in me just gave out. I couldn’t stand there and carry on small talk. My whole body shut down. So I pulled my friend —who I have known since third grade — aside and told her I was done. Exhausted. Overwhelmed. I just needed to go home.

I was staying at her place, so the next morning we sat down over coffee and I asked her to tell me everything — all the people, all the stories I’d missed. And she did. And I genuinely wanted to hear it.

But somewhere in the middle of it, I just started crying.

“What is wrong?” She asked.

And I replied: I feel like nobody ever asks about me. I have so many relationships that only go one direction. And it’s exhausting.

She wrapped her arms around me and said — and I’ll never forget this — “Oh my God, I had absolutely no idea. Your life seems so perfect. You live in Naples, you have a wonderful husband, great kids, a career you love. I just assumed nothing was going on with you.”

And she wasn’t wrong to think that. Everything she listed is true and I’m grateful for all of it. But I had been overwhelmed the night before, and not one person had thought to ask, including her.

And here’s the truth — this wasn’t her fault. Or anyone’s fault. Because the reason nobody asks is because I never tell anyone. I’m so practiced at holding it together for everyone else that I’ve trained the people around me not to check. They assume I’m fine because I let them.

That’s something I’m still learning to change.

And I don’t think I’m alone in this. I think a lot of you know exactly what I’m talking about.

So today I want to ask you something I wish someone had asked me:

What’s one thing you wish the people closest to you understood about you — that you’ve never quite found the words to say?

Drop it in the comments. I’d love to hear!

We were maybe fifteen minutes into our morning walk when I started venting about a friend who hadn’t been returning my calls. It had been bothering me more than I wanted to admit, and I figured this was as good a time as any to get it out.

Except my husband wasn’t really with me. I could feel it. The “mm-hmm” that means he’s technically present but his brain is somewhere else entirely.

And here’s the embarrassing part.

I am a relationship coach. I spend my days helping people slow down, get curious, and stop reacting to stories they created in their minds before checking if any of it is actually true.

Within about thirty seconds of noticing he wasn’t fully listening, my brain had already decided what it meant.

He doesn’t care about what matters to me. He’s never really there when I need him. He’s selfish.

All of that. In thirty seconds. On a beautiful beach. At the start of a day we had both been looking forward to.

And then I picked a fight.

Not about my friend. Not even really about him not listening. Just a fight that came entirely from a story I made up in my own head without asking him a single question.

We went home. The beach day was over. We didn’t really talk for the rest of the afternoon, and by that evening I was sitting there knowing full well that I owed him an apology — the real kind, not the “I’m sorry you felt that way” kind. The “I was a raging bitch today” kind.

Because here’s what I knew, even in the middle of it all: he was probably just tired. Or thinking about something. Or just enjoying the beautiful walk on the beach.

All completely reasonable. All things I could have landed on if I had just paused — for one second — before deciding I already knew what his distraction meant.

That’s the thing about the pause. It’s always there. And we blow past it constantly, especially when we’re already a little wound up and our brains are moving faster than we are.

I spent that whole day being the exact person I help other people stop being. And I think that’s worth saying out loud. Not because I’m proud of it, but because I think a lot of us walk around believing that knowing better means doing better — and it just doesn’t work that way.

The pause has to be learned and, well, apparently relearned.

Have you ever jumped to a conclusion, built a whole story around it, and created a totally unnecessary fight?  I’d love to hear about it in the comments — because if you have ever done this — you are in good company. 

Not the price of eggs. Not whether eggs were good for you. Just… eggs. Specifically, the fact that he had come home from a full grocery run — a complete, thoughtful, I-got-everything-on-the-list grocery run — with the wrong kind.

Regular eggs instead of organic.

She was furious. He was defensive. And I’m sitting there watching two grown adults who clearly love each other go to war over something you can buy at Kroger for under ten dollars.

From the outside, it looked ridiculous.

But, here’s the thing. When we finally slowed down and got underneath it, the eggs had absolutely nothing to do with it.

He was exhausted and hurt. He’d gone out of his way to help, and instead of a thank you, he got a critique. Again. He felt like no matter what he did, it was never quite right. Never quite enough.

She wasn’t actually mad about the eggs either. To her, it was one more moment of feeling like he didn’t pay attention to the details of their life together. The small things that said I see you. I know you. I’m paying attention. The eggs were just the latest piece of evidence in a case she’d been building for a while.

Two people. One carton of eggs. Completely different wounds.

I think about this couple a lot, honestly. Because it’s not really a couples thing — it’s a human thing. We do this all the time. We fight about the thing that’s right in front of us because it’s so much easier than saying the thing that’s actually true.

It’s easier to say you got the wrong eggs than to say I feel invisible sometimes and I don’t know how to tell you that.

It’s easier to say I can’t do anything right than to say I’m trying so hard and I’m terrified it’s still not enough.

So we argue about groceries. And dishes. And who said what in what tone and why they always do that thing. And we go to bed annoyed, or distant, or just… tired. Without ever getting close to what was actually wrong.

I don’t know about you, but I have been both people in that story. On different days, in different kitchens, about different things that were never really about the thing.

The eggs were just the messenger.

After my divorce, I blamed my ex-husband for everything.

Every. Single. Thing.

The reason the marriage ended? Him. The arguments we had? Him. The distance that grew between us? Definitely him.

I walked away completely convinced that I had married the wrong person, and that was that.

Then I got remarried. And slowly, quietly, some of the same dynamics started showing up.

Same feelings. Same friction. Different man.

That’s when it hit me — maybe I was part of the problem. Maybe I had never actually looked at my own triggers, my own reactions, my own patterns. Maybe I had spent years pointing the finger outward and never once turned it around.

That realization changed everything. Not overnight, and definitely not easily. But when I finally started understanding what I brought to the dynamic — the stories I told myself, the ways I reacted, the patterns I didn’t even know I had — our marriage shifted. In the best way.

That’s why I love helping others learn about themselves and their own relationships.. And that’s why I started Patterns & Pauses.

This is a place for honest conversation about relationships — the patterns that silently run them, the moments that reveal them, and what it actually takes to change. Not therapy-speak. Not blame. Just real talk about the one thing most of us never do: look at ourselves first.

So here’s my question for you — what patterns do you keep seeing show up in your relationship? The ones that make you think why do we keep doing this?

If something is coming up for you, I’d love to connect. Reach out and let’s talk. Sometimes one conversation is all it takes to start seeing things differently.