Why We Really Fight: What’s Hiding Beneath Our Reactions

“I don’t understand why every little thing turns into drama between us,” Tamar said. “Yesterday David came home and was quiet. I asked him what was wrong, and he said, ‘Nothing.’ But I could tell something wasn’t right. So I asked again. And then again. Eventually, he got angry and told me I wasn’t letting him breathe.”

David smiled wearily.

“Because you really weren’t letting me breathe. I was tired, that’s all. But with her, if I’m quiet for five minutes, she’s already convinced something happened.”

“Not convinced,” Tamar corrected him. “I just can’t handle not knowing. If something is wrong between us, I need to know.”

I turned to her.

“What happens inside you when he’s quiet and you don’t know what he’s feeling?”

She paused.

“Stress. Like something bad is about to happen.”

“And what are you afraid will happen?”

“That he’ll pull away.”

I looked at both of them.

“And that’s exactly where we need to stop. Because now we’re no longer talking only about what happened last night.”

The Lessons We Learn About Love as Children

When a child experiences a parent as distant, critical, inconsistent, or emotionally unavailable, they usually don’t analyze the relationship the way an adult would.

Instead, they may arrive at an explanation much closer to home:

“The problem must be me.”

Strangely, that conclusion can also give a child a sense of control.

If the problem is me, then maybe I can fix it.

Maybe if I’m better, quieter, more successful, less demanding, or easier to love, the relationship will feel safe again.

“So the child blames himself because it gives him some sense of control?” David asked.

“Exactly. It isn’t a conscious decision. It can become a way of protecting the thing the child needs most: the relationship.”

And from there, different survival strategies can develop.

One child learns to please. They become experts at sensing the parent’s emotions before noticing their own. They know what to say, when to stay quiet, what will make the parent happy, and what might prevent conflict.

In a sense, the child becomes the emotional caretaker.

Another child learns the opposite lesson: Become small.

Don’t ask. Don’t burden anyone. Don’t need too much.

Because if you don’t need anyone, perhaps no one can disappoint or reject you.

David sat up straighter.

“That’s me.”

Tamar looked at him. “But you always say you’re just independent.”

“Right.”

“Maybe you are independent,” I said gently. “But perhaps somewhere along the way, you also learned that needing another person could be dangerous.”

He fell silent.

When a Coping Strategy Starts Looking Like a Personality

There is also the child who learns that love comes through achievement.

If I’m perfect, if I don’t make mistakes, if I keep everything under control, then I’ll be worthy of love.

That child may grow into an adult who manages everything, struggles to relinquish control, and feels that if they stop holding the household together for even a moment, everything will collapse.

And then there is the child who becomes an emotional seismograph.

They learn to read facial expressions, tones of voice, slammed doors, silence, and tiny shifts in mood. They sense the “earthquake” before it happens.

Not necessarily because they are overly dramatic or sensitive, but because at some point, knowing that something was about to change may have helped them feel safer.

“That’s exactly what happens to me with David,” Tamar said. “He goes quiet, and immediately I feel like I have to fix it.”

“Right. And some of these strategies become so familiar that by adulthood, we simply call them our personality.

“‘I’m just independent.’

“‘I have to manage everything.’

“‘I’m very sensitive.’

“‘I hate conflict, so I always give in.’

“Some of those qualities may genuinely be part of who we are. But it can still be worth asking: What is happening underneath? Is there a part of me that is still working very hard to keep love safe?”

David looked skeptical.

“So every time we fight, we’re actually children?”

“No. You’re adults. But intimate relationships can touch places inside us that other relationships rarely reach.

“A look. A silence. A criticism. A moment when our partner seems unavailable.

“And suddenly an old story can wake up.”

The argument may appear to be about, “Why didn’t you answer me?”

But underneath it, another question may be hiding:

“Are you still with me? Is there room for me here? Can you love me even when I’m not exactly what you want me to be?”

When One Partner Chases and the Other Pulls Away

David thought for a moment.

“And what happens to me when I pull away?”

“You tell me.”

“When I feel like she’s angry, or she wants something from me that I can’t give her, I shut down. I tell myself I need space.”

“And maybe you really do need space. But perhaps there is also a part of you that learned that when another person needs something from you, their need can feel overwhelming. Then the safest response is to disappear.”

Tamar looked at him.

“So when you pull away, it isn’t necessarily because you don’t care?”

“No,” David said. “Sometimes I pull away precisely because I don’t know how to stay.”

“And there’s the cycle,” I said.

Tamar is afraid David will pull away, so she moves closer.

David is afraid of feeling overwhelmed, so he moves farther away.

The more Tamar searches for reassurance, the more David searches for air.

And the more David searches for air, the more certain Tamar becomes that she is about to lose him.

Neither one intends to hurt the other.

But each person’s attempt to feel safe activates the other person’s fear.

How Do You Break the Cycle?

“So what do we do?” Tamar asked.

“We don’t begin with blame. Not David, not you, and not your parents. The goal isn’t to put the past on trial. It’s to understand what is happening between you now.”

The next time David becomes quiet, Tamar can pause before asking the same question again and again.

She can ask herself:

What old story has been activated in me right now? What part of me is afraid?

Then she can remind herself:

I am not that helpless little girl anymore. Today, I have choices.

That doesn’t mean the fear will immediately disappear. It means that gradually, a little space can form between what is happening now and what her body once learned to expect.

“And David,” I continued, “the next time you feel the urge to disappear, don’t stop at, ‘That’s just who I am.’

“Ask yourself: What part of me wants to run right now?”

Then, instead of shutting down completely, he can say:

“I’m overwhelmed right now. I need half an hour to calm down, and then I’ll come back and talk to you.”

“And you,” I told Tamar, “instead of asking him again and again until he explodes, you can say:

‘When you become quiet, I get scared that you’re pulling away. I don’t want to chase you, but I need to know that you’re going to come back and talk to me.’”

Tamar nodded.

“It’s finally saying what I couldn’t say before.”

“Exactly.”

The Goal Isn’t to Stop Being Triggered

And perhaps that is the heart of the process.

Childhood wounds do not necessarily disappear just because we understand where they came from.

Silence may still trigger us. Criticism may still hurt. Distance may still frighten us.

But gradually, those old patterns no longer have to run the relationship.

The people-pleaser can learn to stop surrendering their own needs simply to keep the peace.

The person who learned to disappear can practice staying present.

The person carrying the entire household on their shoulders can loosen their grip without believing everything will collapse.

And the emotional seismograph can pause, breathe, and ask:

Is something actually wrong right now, or has an old story been awakened?

Tamar and David did not leave that session with an entirely new relationship. They did not suddenly stop triggering one another.

But they began to see something they had not seen before.

The person sitting across from them was not necessarily an enemy or a partner who simply refused to understand.

Sometimes, the person in front of us is an adult carrying an old fear, someone who once learned to do whatever was necessary to protect an important relationship.

And when a couple can create even a small pause between the trigger and the response, something new becomes possible.

They can recognize the fear without automatically obeying it.

They can stay.

They can ask.

They can set a boundary.

They can give each other space without disappearing.

And instead of trying to become someone else in order to deserve love, they can slowly learn to bring their real selves into the relationship.