​The Tender Irony of Love - When Asking Feels Like Rejection

Image by Lisa Caroselli from Pixabay

Even when we choose our relationships differently—more wisely, more in line with who we’re becoming—the old wounds still ask to be felt. If all we've ever known is “cope, contain, do it ourselves,” someone else needing something from us can feel like a threat. Like being asked to give more when there’s nothing left in the tank. When survival strategies like hyper-independence, perfectionism or over-responsibility are at play, it’s easy to misread a request or boundary as rejection.

When someone asks me to do something differently, my first reflex is often “no.” Not because I don’t care, but because I feel pressure to get it right. And if I can’t—if what they’re asking touches a place I’ve had to wall off (without even recognising why, in some long forgotten survival strategy)—my body interprets that as danger. I shut down. I get defensive. I disappear behind words or silence.

A request to do something differently can feel like a judgment. I know that tightness in the chest. The no that comes out before I even know why. Someone said to me recently, “I can imagine you as a child saying no, no, no!” I smiled, reflected and replied, “And yet, ironically, it’s more accurate to imagine me hearing no, no, no. I was famous for saying why, why, why.”

Isn’t that just it? The child in me who said why wasn’t being defiant—she was trying to understand, trying to connect. The adult version of her, who was hurt and learned to say no as a defence, is now trying to say “hang on a minute” instead, to give me time to properly process what’s being asked and whether it’s reasonable. Trying to soften rather than shut down. But under stress, the old no still slips out before I can catch it.

In an ideal world—one that relationship expert Briana MacWilliam skilfully describes in her Secure Attachment teachings—everyone would approach hard conversations in a non-judgmental way, eliciting cooperation rather than competition. I’ve found this is possible from a calm, pattern-free place, where I can respond with grace and clarity. That’s the goal. But getting there? It’s messy.

One person finds the courage to speak their truth—to express a need—and they don’t quite follow the recommended phrasing, because in that moment, just asking to have needs met feels dysregulating. And as a result, the other feels like they’ve failed.

Suddenly, we’re not in the present moment anymore—we’re in the echoes: echoes of childhood. echoes of shutdown, echoes of coping alone….I know those echoes well.

And I know how vulnerable it feels to be the one expressing a need—especially when our history has taught us that needs are inconvenient, too much, or likely to be met with no. Recently, I tried to express something difficult to someone close to me: that their habit of overcommitting was quietly eroding both their wellbeing and our connection. I wasn’t asking them to stop helping others or to hide how they felt—I was asking them to honour their limits, so their giving didn’t cost them (or our connection) more than it should.

It came from care—for them, and for our connection. But it didn’t land how I’d hoped. I was asking for presence, not performance. For awareness, not action. But it landed as criticism.

And that makes sense. When someone’s system is wired for survival, doorways often look like danger. But even knowing that didn’t stop my own survival patterns from kicking in. Their instinct was to shut down, self-contain, solve. Once upon a time, mine would’ve been the same. Sometimes it still is.
And in that moment, I had a choice:

• To spiral into self-doubt.
• To make myself smaller.
• To shut down in response to their shutdown.

Or… to stay. Grounded. Soft. Clear.

To let my words land not like weapons, but like seeds—and to trust that even if they don’t sprout today, the soil of the relationship will hold them.

It’s the quiet irony of healing in relationships, isn’t it? One person breathes out, says “Here’s what I need”—and the other hears, “You’re not enough,” or “You’re too much,” or “You’re crazy.” Echoes of the old stories we carry.

That’s the messy middle between old and new ways of being. And it’s where real change happens. Learning to stay without spinning out. To recognise that saying no doesn’t mean rejecting others—it means I haven’t yet learned to stay with myself in the discomfort of not having the answer.

That’s the thing: most of the time, when it feels like someone is rejecting us—they’re not. They’re rejecting a part of themselves. The part that’s afraid. The part that’s raw. The part that was never met with compassion when they felt unsure.

When it clicks—when we realise just how powerfully our wiring shapes what we hear, what we assume—that moment of “How did I get it so wrong?” becomes a pivotal one. Not one of blame or shame, but of awareness. The realisation that we’ve been seeing through a lens of old fear, unmet needs, protective reflexes.

Knowing that doesn’t take the sting away. But it helps me hold the moment differently.

And holding space for others to reach that realisation—without fixing or steering—is huge. A calm, non-defensive presence is the invitation. The wiring is strong, but I recognise the fact that I now pause, reflect with kindness, and see my triggers without being them is progress.

It’s not about changing someone. It’s about being the kind of love that helps them feel safe enough to change, if they want to. Not by pushing insight down their throat (another common coping mechanism of mine), but by planting seeds in the soil of safety—and letting presence do the work.

Letting love, presence, and staying be the ground in which change takes root. Because it’s not clever words that rewire us. It’s the felt sense that we’re safe here. Loved, even in our uncertainty.

It’s definitely not always about saying more—and, as I say, I struggle with that too. If the deepest repair comes through presence, not explanation, then my nervous system has to be regulated enough to stay. To sit with discomfort without managing theirs.

I’m learning that love and relationships aren’t about perfect harmony. They’re about returning to each other, again and again, with gentleness. Even when one of us is tangled in old patterns. Even when the bridge feels fragile.

Because every time I stay with myself—without collapsing or blaming—I strengthen that bridge. Not by demanding they meet me there, but by becoming someone it feels safe to meet.

I used to think safety meant harmony: no conflict, no discomfort, no risk of rupture. But now I know that real safety is deeper. It’s the knowing that even when things get messy—when I’m triggered, overwhelmed—the connection won’t vanish. That we can weather the wave together.

This was one of the first times I consciously dared to stay in discomfort rather than manage, fix, or flee it. And oddly, it’s in those moments—when I expect everything to fall apart—that I find the deepest trust. Not because it’s perfect, but because we’re still here. Still choosing each other. Even when it’s hard.

Valarie Kaur wrote recently about Vaisakhi, the springtime harvest festival that was on 13 April this year, and the birth of the Khalsa, a community committed to the path of the sant-sipahi, the sage warrior. The sage chooses to love. The warrior lets that love become courageous action. Her Sikh ancestors faced authoritarian regimes—and chose revolutionary love. We can too.

“Presence”, I said simply. “In those moments when retreat feels safer, I need you to be present. To be curious enough to consider that what’s being picked up isn’t what’s being laid down”. That I’m still learning, still becoming the observer of my own reactions. That we’re both inexperienced here—learning together.

When we’ve armoured up, ready to fight, hide, or flee, the real task is to stay. To look around and realise—there’s no battlefield. To breathe. To dismount. To remove the armour and meet the moment as it truly is.

Our ability to speak and hear truth is fraught with patterning and pitfalls. It’s nuanced, and yet simple.
Stay.
Be present.
Be willing to take off the armour—and listen.

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If you enjoyed this post, you might also like What If You Could Relive Life’s Most Precious Moments? How to Embrace the Power of Presence, How to Make Your Communication Clean, Open and Honest and Get What You Want and How Childhood Imprints Shape Your Relationships (and How to Break Free).