The little ways we stop seeing each other, and what you might notice if you pay attention.
I’m sitting in my car with my iPad on my lap, waiting for my son’s basketball game to end. The AC hums quietly. The music on my playlist was distracting, so I turned it off. Now it’s just me, the faint sound of keys clicking, and my thoughts circling all the small things that pulled me and him apart.
I thought they were small at the time. I told myself they didn’t matter. That I was making too much of nothing and should just let it go. But as I sit here now, I can see those moments mattered more than I wanted to admit.
I still remember the day he came home with flowers. He had planted a little garden for me, using flowers he’d brought from the meditation centre I’d sold a year earlier. He thought it would mean the world to me. And maybe it should have. But I didn’t even notice. Not for weeks. When he finally told me, almost choking on his words, I could see how much it meant to him. And how much it hurt that I hadn’t seen it.
I still don’t know what to make of that. Why I didn’t notice. Why I wasn’t paying attention to the ways he was trying to love me. There must have been so many moments I missed.
But it wasn’t just me missing him.
There was my car. The wheel alignment was off, and it scared me a few times when it pulled hard while I was driving. I told him I wanted to take it in, but he stopped me, saying he’d fix it himself to save money.
So I waited. Weeks passed. Then months. Then years. Every time I brought it up, he nodded and said okay. But nothing happened. And still, I stayed quiet. I kept telling myself to be patient, that he was busy, the same way I did with all the other promises he didn’t keep. But deep down, I knew he wasn’t that busy. If he’d really wanted to, he could have done it. My car simply wasn’t as important to him as his motorbike.
And then there were the dinners.
One night I had a late conference call. I told him beforehand that I’d be stuck in the room working until late, and asked if he could make dinner. When I finally came out, hungry and tired, I saw he’d cooked. But only for himself and the kids. Nothing for me.
I didn’t know why he left me out like that. We weren’t fighting. He wasn’t angry. He just hadn’t thought about me. And somehow that hurt even more than if he’d done it on purpose.
Another night, I brought home takeaway and we sat down to watch a movie. He handed out plates to himself and the kids. But not to me. That was my last straw. I remember saying quietly, my voice shaking, “Wow. I bought dinner and I didn’t even get a plate?”
He jumped, startled, and scrambled to get one for me. And again, it wasn’t on purpose. Which somehow made it worse. I realised I just wasn’t on his mind anymore.
And that was the part I didn’t know how to say out loud. At the time, those things seemed small. I kept telling myself it was fine, that he didn’t mean it, that I could handle it. But my body kept track, even when my mind tried to let it go.
Of course, those weren’t the only things. There were so many moments I could name now. All the quiet ways we hurt each other without even realising.
Looking back, I wish I’d said something sooner. I wish I’d told him when I felt hurt, when I felt forgotten, and given him the chance to see it. Maybe even to make it right. But I didn’t. I stayed quiet. I let those small things pile up until one day it felt like I was carrying a mountain. I hadn’t even noticed how heavy it had gotten, or how much space had grown between us, until it was too late.
I share my story because I know so many of us carry these same quiet hurts. All the little things we thought didn’t matter. Maybe as you read this, you’ll start to notice your own moments and find the courage to say something before it’s too late.
This week, try to notice the small ways you and your partner reach for each other. And the moments when one of you turns away, even without meaning to. You don’t have to fix it all at once. But you don’t have to stay quiet either.
Even the smallest moment can be an opening. A chance to say what’s true. To let them see you. To let them try.
Because the little things that pull us apart are real. But so are the little things that can bring us back.
And as I sit here now, waiting for my son to finish his game, I remind myself of that too.
