And how I stop playing my part in the distance
One of the most heartbreaking things I hear from people, and even said myself, is this:
“They’re just not the person I fell in love with anymore.”
I recall thinking those words one night after what was supposed to be a rare and special evening.
The kids were at a friend’s house for a sleepover, something that almost never happened. I asked my husband if we could use the opportunity for a date night, just the two of us. I wanted to feel close again. We went out to dinner, then stopped at a bar for a drink afterward. I had hoped it would remind us of how things used to feel between us.
But halfway through the evening, as I sat there trying to talk to him, I noticed he was on his phone. At first, I thought it might be something important, but as the minutes passed, it became clear that he was actually texting someone.
I finally asked him what he was doing. He just laughed and said he was texting his friend. And then, as if it were nothing at all, he added, “I asked if he wants to join us for a drink.”
I just stared at him, my heart sinking. And sure enough, a little while later, his friend actually showed up. What was supposed to be our date and a rare chance to reconnect as a couple became something else entirely. In that moment, I remember thinking, He’s changed. He’s not who he used to be.
He used to be so interested in me, asking questions, telling me everything on his mind, eager to make me laugh and spend time just the two of us. Now he seemed distracted and cold, like a stranger sitting across the table. We didn’t even seem to have anything to talk about anymore, except for updates about the kids.
It was easier to see the ways he had grown distant than to see what had been happening between us. Looking back now, with more perspective, I can see that it wasn’t just he who had changed. I had changed, too.
It took me years to understand, is that the version of him I was missing didn’t disappear overnight. And it didn’t disappear in isolation. It disappeared in the quiet space between us. The version of him I longed for couldn’t survive the months of silence, the unspoken resentment, the missed moments when he had reached out and I was too tired or too afraid to open up. And the same was true for me.
I’m sure there were moments he looked at me and thought, Where did she go? The one who laughed at my dumb jokes, who held my hand on the couch, who wanted me?
I understand now, that disconnection doesn’t just affect one person; it affects both person in the relationship.
It’s tempting to tell ourselves, “They’ve changed. They’re not the person I married.” But in reality, the space between you has changed them—and you—in ways you couldn’t see at the time.
That doesn’t mean you’re to blame for who they became. However, it does mean that it’s worth examining how you both adapted to the distance: how you stopped showing up fully, how you protected yourself by withdrawing, criticising, retreating, or shutting down.
That night stayed with me for a long time. Even after our marriage ended, I carried those patterns into the next chapter of my life. I didn’t want to, but the truth is, these ways of protecting ourselves become automatic. Even after years of inner work and learning, I still notice that pattern shows up in me sometimes, but that’s also what makes it perfect. Because each time it appears, I get to practice what I’ve learned.
I had spent years working with and reflecting on relationship dynamics, trying to understand what helps people stay connected and what quietly drives them apart. But the real turning point, the moment this book truly began to take shape, came much later, in my current relationship.
It was a small argument. Nothing explosive, but just one of those moments when he withdrew, and so did I. On another day, I might have thought, Fine. If he doesn’t want to talk, neither do I. I don’t need this. I can take care of myself. That voice within me, which wanted to stay independent and protected, was still very much alive.
But this time, I caught myself.
I knew where that path would lead. I had been down it before—the silence, the distance, the quiet resentment that grows until it’s too late.
In this relationship, we had promised each other something different. We had agreed to work on things even when it was hard and to keep talking even when it was uncomfortable.
That evening, I sat there with my chest tight, so heavy it was almost suffocating, as I debated whether to say anything at all. Part of me still believed I wasn’t the one in the wrong. Part of me wanted to retreat, to protect myself, to let the silence grow.
That was when the phrase The Silent Breakup came to me. Because in that moment, I realised that if I had kept following the same patterns I always had, I would have ended up on the same quiet, lonely path all over again. Who was right and who was wrong no longer mattered, because what mattered most was our relationship. So I set my ego aside and chose to reach for him.
We talked. It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t perfect, but we work through it. We learned more about each other, and we emerged from that moment feeling closer rather than further apart.
I was proud that I chose differently this time. And that choice changed what could have happened.
So I started writing my upcoming book The Silent Breakup: The Untold Story of Disconnection—And the Small Steps Back Toward Healing. Because I know how hard it is to choose differently. I know how much it asks of you. But I also know how deeply worth it it can be. I didn’t have the understanding and the tools then, but now I do, and I want to share them with you.
I’d love to hear your thoughts. Have you ever looked at someone you love and thought that they’re not the same person anymore? How did you respond? What did you do next?
P.S. If you know someone who needs this, feel free to forward this post. You can also subscribe to my Substack at : https://draricalaw.substack.com.
