Why Avoiding Hard Conversations Feeds Trauma Patterns in Relationships

I slumped into the couch and let out a deep exhale, though my chest stayed tight as hell. I noticed that if I stared blankly at the traffic, slowly crawling by on Oxford Street, I could numb out the gut-wrenching cramps caused by my screech-level anxiety. But soon enough, the silence in the room became suffocating. My boyfriend had stormed off hours ago, mid-argument, and the fog of his anger still filled the air.

Our “rule” was to take space when things got heated and talk again later. At first, it felt mature. But over time, it became a trap. The space turned into an excuse for him to shut down, leaving me sitting there, drowning in fear of what came next. I never knew how long I’d be stuck in that hellhole of anxiety, spiraling in my own mind. What had I done wrong? Was I too much? Why wasn’t he coming back? How much longer could I do this dance?

One evening, enough was enough. I couldn't sit in the between space anymore, so I spoke up. “I feel concerned that we keep avoiding the hard stuff, hun,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm while my insides trembled. I felt a wave of terror—what if this backfired? All I wanted was deeper connection.

Instead, he shot back, furious. “Why are you always criticising me? I’m so over how you do this.” His words hit like hard thuds on my solar plexus and throat. My stomach churned, old wounds tearing open again. He didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to face it. And just like that, it was over. No resolution. No discussion. Just silence.

A week later, I found myself in therapy, feeling bewildered, a bit spaced out, but hopeful and glad I was there. “When I try to talk about something important, he either gets angry, shuts down, says I’m too much, or walks away. And then... nothing changes,” I said. My gut let go some, having spoken my reality, and even more when it was met with warmth from the woman sitting opposite me.

I felt my shame, I admitted how it felt like I was the problem—that maybe I was just too messed up to make a relationship work. My throat felt thick with grief when I spoke those words; they were my worst fear. I wanted so much to be healthy and secure in a relationship, to have a family of my own. My therapist listened and then said something that hit me and shifted my self-perception forever forwards: “It sounds like avoidance is the glue holding your relationship together.”

My stomach dropped. I felt a wash of clarity rush through my front brain, fog was clearing away, fast. I thought I was processing my part on my own, forgiving and letting go. Accepting where he was at. But I realised that was my avoidance dressed up as being the bigger person. My mind quickly flashed to my childhood, and I saw this was a pattern I’d learned way back then.

As we unpacked it slowly, I began to see how my upbringing had taught me not to trust my emotions. In my family, conflict wasn’t addressed. If I expressed anger or hurt, I was told I was overreacting—or worse, mocked for it. That old voice—“You’re too much” and “There’s something wrong with you”—echoed in my head, covering me in a thick, suffocating blanket of humiliation, as though simply being myself was inherently wrong.

She said, “Avoiding conflict doesn’t protect you, Prem—it keeps you stuck in pain and reinforces the memory that you aren't even safe in your closest relationships. Real relationships need both conflict and repair.” Truth bomb. These two sentences were to change the course of my life. Taking little risk after little risk, sharing my reality and holding true, I would go on and show up for myself rather than turn the other way. Something had shifted in the way I was seeing this picture of my part, and I felt my chest open wide to allow a wave of hope to wash through it.

I decided I wasn’t willing to be someone who avoided conflict—or someone who hurt herself over and over. Up until then, I had seen the harm as something only he was doing to me. But in that moment, I saw it clearly: it was something I was also doing to myself. And that was enough. I had found where my power lay—right there with me.

I promised myself I would no longer sweep things under the rug to keep the peace. I would speak up. I would hold both myself and my partner accountable for the tough conversations. Staying silent didn’t protect me—it hurt me.

Today, if I feel fearful of showing up for a hard conversation, I pause. I feel my thumping heart in my chest, and I direct my attention towards remembering what happens when I avoid: I lose trust in myself and in the relationship. I keep my attention there and I remember what follows—I get stuck in a torturous and endless loop of “Should I stay, or should I leave? Is this person really unsafe, or am I the problem?” I feel the impact of that imagery and I take a slow breath. I feel the fear in my belly, notice my racing heart—and I start talking anyway. I communicate my feelings. If I need to stand my ground, I do. I hold accountability that we face the hard stuff together. If I can't do it alone, I get support. It’s not easy, but it’s worth it.

Real security, what is described as secure attachment, isn’t built on avoiding conflict. It’s built on showing up, facing the tough moments, and seeing the evidence that we can work through it. That is what heals a nervous system that has suffered relational betrayals in the past. I feel secure knowing today that in any relationship, if we consistently can’t make it to the other side—even with the right support—it’s time to take my exit.

Now, when I sit with others in a session who are struggling with this same dynamic, I can say with confidence: You can break free from these patterns. With courage and commitment to stop turning away from what really matters to you—and thus stop hurting yourself—you will come out on top, either way: in a real, secure relationship where you feel known and loved, or feeling deeply connected and secure within yourself.

I find myself saying, with a Mona Lisa’esque smile, "It is a win-win that is hard-won, but it will be worth it” feeling gratitude for the woman who once told me that very same thing and changed my life.