Why Real Relationships Require Repair

Movies and cultural narratives often project—and quietly reinforce—the fantasy of the perfect relationship. Most of us did not grow up with strong models for navigating conflict, difference, and repair. Sometimes our parents shielded us from their struggles, fighting only behind closed doors or suppressing conflict altogether. When conflict is hidden rather than worked through, many of us fill in the gaps with a fantasy of relational ease.

From family, culture, and media, we absorb an idealized storyline about how relationships are supposed to work.

We come to believe that somewhere there is someone who will just get us—the partner, the friend, even the therapist. Understanding will feel effortless. Alignment will be natural. Conflict will be minimal, and if it appears, it will be easy to navigate.

Over time, this fantasy teaches a subtle but damaging lesson: that good relationships should not require much work—and that when conflict arises, something must be wrong. With us. With them. Or with the relationship itself.

This illusion leaves little room for reality. There is no easy or perfect relationship, and when we orient ourselves toward that ideal, we cut ourselves off from some of the most important ways we learn how to relate.

Conflict as a Gateway, Not a Threat

Conflict, friction, and misunderstanding are not signs of failure; they are gateways to deeper understanding. No one will always understand you—not even the people who love you most, and often not even your parents. This is a painful reality that many teens are actively grappling with. Growing up, in part, is accepting this truth.

While constant attunement may feel wonderful, it is not what sustains authentic relationships. Authenticity requires that we do not suppress or withhold our truth—even when that truth evokes discomfort or complicated feelings in the other person.

Of course, this is hard. Rupture activates the nervous system. We move into self‑protection—fight, flight, freeze, or sometimes appeasement and repression. Conflict often challenges how we want to see ourselves and how we want to be seen.

If we are committed to growth and to our relationships, we must be willing to take in another person’s experience of us—even when it feels awful, unfair, or threatening to our self‑image. These are vulnerable, often shame‑tinged moments where we meet our edge. Most of us instinctively retreat into defenses. It is far easier to stay aligned with what comforts the ego.

And yet, the people who love us most must be able to be honest with us. Without honesty, relationships rely on conscious or unconscious collusion. We may appear connected, but something essential remains untouched.

Rupture creates space for that honesty—and for repair. It invites us to look inward, not only at what the other person has done, but at what was stirred inside us.

Conflict does not inherently mean a relationship is bad. What sustains a healthy relationship is openness: a willingness to slow down, to listen, and to repair when harm or misunderstanding occurs. When someone hurts us and then attempts to understand that hurt, the relationship both strengthens and expands. The fantasy bubble bursts, our circle of knowing widens, and real relating becomes possible.

At a developmental level, the wish to be continuously liked and effortlessly understood is natural. It reflects an early longing for caregivers to meet our needs seamlessly. But in adulthood, this wish becomes unrealistic and constraining. If everyone always understood us, there would be no room for learning, growth, or expansion. Difference would disappear—and with it, the possibility of deeper intimacy.

Expecting Rupture

We learn to have genuine relationships when we stay open to possibilities beyond the conflict itself. When we accept rupture as a regular part of connection, we are better able to stay engaged with it.

Relationships are less like smooth highways and more like bumper cars. Rupture happens at the point of impact—when something hurts, when we feel triggered, when a reaction erupts before reflection has a chance to catch up.

If we expected rupture, we might respond differently when it occurs. Instead of panicking, withdrawing, or ending the relationship, we could recognize it as an opportunity to understand ourselves and the other person more deeply. We might even become curious about their perspective rather than immediately defending our own.

Whether we hold the fantasy of ease consciously or not, it often becomes the standard against which we measure our relationships—and ourselves. When reality falls short, disappointment can quickly turn into judgment or disconnection.

A Collective Rupture

Rupture does not exist only in our personal lives. In many parts of the world, we are living through a collective rupture. We see increasing intolerance of difference and otherness—people invading one another’s emotional and psychological space, using harmful language, and narrowing their lens to a single perspective.

When we are anchored solely in our own viewpoint, empathy erodes. Empathy requires humility—the willingness to consider that our understanding may be incomplete or flawed. Yet humility has lost ground in a culture that privileges certainty, individualism, and the me over the we.

This rupture shows up in families who cut off contact because differences feel unbearable, or because there is no internal roadmap for staying in relationship with people who frustrate, disappoint, or hurt us. The pain of separateness is profound. And still, it can feel easier to label the other as wrong or bad than to tolerate grief, ambiguity, or unresolved longing.

Displaced Agency in Relationships

This same pattern often emerges in couples therapy. Many couples arrive—often unconsciously—hoping the therapist will change their partner. If they were different, I’d feel better.

When we do this, we place our agency outside ourselves. We forget a fundamental truth of relational life: we do not have control over others. What we do have is influence—and that influence grows when we take responsibility for our own patterns, reactions, and ways of showing up.

This is where rupture and repair become essential—not optional—for an authentic relationship.

When Rupture Is Avoided Entirely

Some people never allow rupture to occur. Instead, they overfunction—pleasing, accommodating, anticipating needs, and suppressing their own desires and voice. Early attachment experiences, cultural conditioning, or trauma often shape these patterns.

This strategy may preserve connection, but at a high cost. Over time, people become disconnected from their core longings and authentic selves. For some, this shows up as depression, anxiety, or a pervasive sense of emptiness. Often, the focus shifts toward eliminating symptoms rather than listening to what they are signaling—sometimes leading to avoidance, withdrawal, substance use, or addictive behaviors.

At their core, these symptoms often reflect unrepaired rupture: needs unmet, truths unspoken, parts of the self never allowed into the relationship.

Making Rupture Workable

Ruptures occur when our wounds and edges are bumped by someone else—either through objectively painful actions (such as lying or infidelity) or through subjective interpretation (a tone, a look, how something was said, or the meaning we assign to it).

We are meaning‑making creatures. When something happens, we often fill in the gaps with fear‑based narratives—and keep those stories to ourselves instead of checking them against reality.

In couples work, slowing this process down is essential. One framework I often offer is a simple but powerful shift:

When you did ___, I felt ___. And I told myself the story that ___.

This separates behavior from feeling, and feeling from interpretation. It creates space for curiosity rather than accusation—and allows both nervous systems to settle enough to re‑engage.

Because rupture is not failure.

Rupture as a Call for Adjustment

Rupture is not failure; it is a signal that something hurts and that the connection is asking for adjustment.

This is especially true in relational therapy. Rupture followed by repair is one of the most important and valuable aspects of the therapeutic relationship. Therapy is not about perfect attunement. Your therapist will not always get you right. What matters is that they are open, responsive, and inviting of your feedback.

Moments of misattunement—particularly for people with relational trauma—are often where healing occurs. Being able to say, “That’s not quite right,” “I don’t feel understood here,” or “I was annoyed you didn’t respond to my email,” is not a problem in therapy. It is evidence of safety.

As a relational therapist, I see these moments as signs that a client feels secure enough to be real—and that we are touching something meaningful and potentially transformative. A real relationship begins when we stay open, reflect, and repair honestly.

Becoming more of yourself requires that, at times, you ruffle feathers. It asks you to share your truth even when others may struggle to hear it. It means no longer silencing yourself to manage someone else’s discomfort.

It is not selfish. It is necessary.

If you are seeking a fuller, more authentic life, you cannot keep prioritizing others at your own expense. Your soul is calling you to be more of who you are—not less. To live out loud. To speak honestly. To trust that a real connection can withstand your truth.

Because it can—and it must—if it is going to be real.

Therapy as a Space for Repair

Therapy can be a space to explore these patterns with care and attention. A relational, attuned therapeutic relationship gives you the chance to practice authenticity, repair, and self-expression in real time. For many of us who experienced early ruptures that felt unsafe or went unrepaired, this can be profoundly healing.