There’s a particular kind of conversation that tends to happen with newer couples — usually within the first year or so — that goes something like, “We had our first real fight, and now I’m wondering… is this a bad sign?”

Here’s a scenario that comes up a lot: something happens between a couple — a disagreement, a hurtful comment, some kind of rupture, big or small — and afterward, one partner wants to talk about it. Like, really talk about it. Process it, understand it, make sure it’s resolved. And the other partner’s instinct is more like… can we just move past this? Do we have to keep talking about it?

I want to tell you about a moment that I think captures something really common — and really fixable — in relationships.

A couple came in, and one of them said, somewhat exasperated, “I tell him I love him all the time. I say it, like, every day. And he still says he doesn’t feel like I show it.” And the other partner said, almost at the same time, “She says it, sure. But she’s never really… around. We don’t really do things together anymore. I feel like I hear the words, but I don’t feel them.”

There’s a moment that a lot of couples describe to me, usually with a bit of a sheepish look, like they’re confessing something. It goes something like: “Things were so easy at the beginning. And now… it’s just different. Is that normal? Should we be worried?”

I want to tell you about a couple I worked with a while back — I’ll call them, in my head, “the planners and the wanderers,” because that’s sort of how it felt. One of them needed structure. Plans, schedules, knowing what was coming. The other one thrived on spontaneity — last-minute decisions, leaving things open, seeing what the day brought.

There’s a particular moment I see a lot in couples work, and it’s one of those things that’s almost painful to witness because both people are clearly trying — and it’s still not working.

‍Most of the couples I work with come in because something feels hard. But every once in a while, a couple comes in and says something like, “Honestly, things are pretty good. We just wanted a tune-up.”

One partner is talking — sometimes frustrated, sometimes hurt, sometimes both — and the other partner is just... quiet. Not in an angry way, exactly. More like they've gone somewhere else.

There's a question I sometimes ask couples in our first session: "When's the last time you told each other about your day — like, really told them, not just 'fine, how was yours'?"

A few years ago, I was talking with a couple — I'll keep the details vague, but the general shape of the story will probably sound familiar to a lot of people. The wife described an evening where her husband forgot to stop and get milk on his way home.

That's it. That was the whole thing. Milk.

If you're reading this, there's a good chance you've wondered whether couples therapy might help your relationship.

If you've ever looked at your partner halfway through a fight and thought, "How are we here again?" you're not alone.

Every couple argues. That part is normal, even healthy. But there's a difference between a disagreement about whose turn it is to do the dishes and a fight that leaves both of you feeling alone, misunderstood, or shut down for days.

If you've ever felt like your relationship has a script it keeps following — one of you gets upset, reaches out, pushes for connection; the other goes quiet, pulls back, shuts down — you're not alone. And you're not broken. You've just gotten stuck in one of the most common relationship patterns there is.

When couples come to therapy and mention that they've lost their intimacy, they're often talking about physical closeness. And that matters. But more often than not, what they're really describing is something broader — a sense of distance that has crept into the whole relationship.

If trust has been broken in your relationship — through an affair, a significant lie, a pattern of behavior that finally came to light — you may have heard people say that healing is possible. That might feel hollow right now, or it might be the only thing you're holding onto. Either reaction makes complete sense.

There's a kind of exhaustion that goes beyond needing a good night's sleep. It's the feeling of dreading a conversation you haven't even had yet. Of going through the motions of a life together without feeling particularly present in it. Of caring about your partner but having very little left to give.

Most couples have at least one conversation they've been putting off. Maybe it's about money, or the future, or something one partner did that the other never fully addressed. Maybe it's about something bigger — a rift in values, a question about whether you're still going in the same direction.

Decades of research on couples has revealed something surprising: the couples who stay together and stay happy aren't the ones who never fight. They're the ones who fight — and then repair. They're the ones who keep turning toward each other in small, everyday moments.

Becoming parents. Losing a job. Moving across the country. Caring for an aging parent. Grieving someone you both loved differently. Life transitions — even the joyful ones — put a relationship under a particular kind of pressure.