What If You Didn’t Need to Fix Your Relationship?

How presence- not pressure, can change the way we love.

There was a time when I thought the only way to make my relationship better was to try harder.

Be more patient.
Be more understanding.
Do the work.
Carry more. Feel less.

And I did.

I read the books.
Called the friends.
Tried the therapy.
Journaled through every layer of my longing.

What I didn’t realize then—but I know now—is that I wasn’t just trying to fix the relationship.

I was trying to survive inside it.

What made it harder was the story I had absorbed my whole life:

The love stories we grew up with didn’t teach us how to navigate disconnection.
They taught us that if it’s real, it should be effortless.
That love means being chosen, desired, understood—without having to say a word.
That chemistry should always be hot, timing should always align, and sex should just… happen.

And when it didn’t feel that way?

I assumed something was wrong.

With him.
With me.
With the whole damn thing.

The only models I had were rom-coms and highly edited sex scenes—where everyone is in the mood at the same time, the lighting is perfect, and no one ever talks about boundaries, consent, or shame.

So when real life didn’t look like that, I panicked.
I tried to make it fit the fantasy.
I tried to fix it.

But looking back, I wasn’t broken.

I just didn’t know how to feel.

I didn’t know how to slow down long enough to ask myself what I truly wanted—not what I was taught to want.

I didn’t know how to communicate desire without fear.
I didn’t know that emotional and energetic intimacy could be cultivated, not just stumbled into.

Because I had never been shown what that actually looked like.

There Was Nothing to Fix—But Everything to Feel

It wasn’t that we didn’t care about each other.
It’s that we didn’t know how to reach each other.

We didn’t have the language for emotional safety.
We didn’t know how to talk about sex without shame, shutdown, or silence.
We didn’t have the rituals or shared practices to drop beneath the surface together.

So we drifted.

And when it came to closeness—touch, intimacy, sensuality—I was craving something I didn’t yet know how to ask for.
And he didn’t know how to meet it.

Sometimes we avoid intimacy—not because we don’t want it—
but because our nervous system has learned that closeness isn’t safe.
The desire is there… but the body is guarded.

We weren’t broken.
We were unequipped.

Presence Isn’t a Feeling. It’s a Practice.

That experience shaped everything I do now.

Not because I stayed and fixed it.
But because I left, and saw what was missing.

What I longed for back then wasn’t perfection.
It wasn’t constant sex or effortless communication.

It was presence.
It was invitation.
It was a roadmap.

Something to help us slow down.
Touch with intention.
Speak with curiosity.
Breathe, move, and explore in ways that felt alive—not obligatory.

I didn’t have that then.

So now, I do my best to live in a way that honors what I didn’t know:
That intimacy isn’t something we fall into.
It’s something we learn to create.

And yes—sometimes, there’s grief in realizing you wanted something deeper than what the relationship could hold.

But even that grief can be sacred.
It can show you what you really desire.
What you’re no longer willing to live without.

Let This Land With You

You don’t need to fix it all.
But you can start by being honest with yourself.

If you’re carrying a quiet ache in your relationship, here are a few things to reflect on:

• What are you longing for in your partnership—but haven’t said out loud?

• Where are you showing up alone in something that’s meant to be shared?

• Are there conversations you’re avoiding because you don’t have the tools or language yet?

• What kind of connection would feel nourishing—not just sexually, but emotionally and energetically?

• If presence were your only practice… what might shift?

There’s no right answer here. Just a starting point.

A way back to yourself—and maybe, to each other.