beyond the score

Dear Reader,

A couple sat in my office last month arguing about dishes. He had a list of everything he'd done around the house for the past two weeks. She had her own mental tally going back months. They were both exhausted, and I watched them realize mid-sentence that they'd stopped making choices about how to show up for each other. They were just reacting to a running count.

Score keeping takes the intentionality out of relating. Once you're tracking who did what and when, you're not choosing how you want to be in each moment anymore. You're just responding to the ledger. Your turn, my turn, who's ahead, who's behind. Every interaction becomes automatic, determined by what came before it rather than by how you actually want to show up.

The tallying usually starts for a reason. Someone feels like they're giving more than they're getting back, and keeping track feels like the only way to prove it's real. You notice you reached out last time, so maybe you'll wait. You drove last week, so it's their turn. You helped them move, so they owe you. It makes sense in the moment. You're just trying to make sure things stay fair. But the score keeping never actually makes things feel fair.

So what are we actually protecting when we keep score? Maybe it's fear of being taken advantage of. Maybe it's trying to prove our hurt is legitimate. Maybe we're just tired of feeling unseen and this is the only way we know to say it.

What would it mean to relate intentionally instead? To notice when you're tempted to check the score and ask a different question: How do I want to show up in this moment, regardless of what they did last time? Not because you're ignoring the imbalance, but because you get to decide what kind of person you want to be in this specific interaction.

Some moments you'll choose generosity. Some moments you'll choose a boundary. Some moments you'll realize this relationship doesn't work anymore and you need to step back. But those are choices you're making about how you want to move through your life, not reactions determined by a tally.

Yours in the journey,

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sacrifice

Dear Reader,

Someone asked me recently what sacrifice actually looks like in therapy. They expected I'd talk about clients making hard choices or giving up destructive patterns. Instead I told them about the father who comes to therapy even though he hates being there. He doesn't think he needs it, but his teenage daughter asked him to go so they could rebuild their relationship. He'd rather be anywhere else, but he shows up anyway because she needs him to.

We think about real sacrifice as happening when you give something up for someone else's good. Parents lose sleep to care for a sick kid and they're exhausted, but their child needs them. Someone turns down more money because the work they're doing matters to people who need it. The loss is real, the cost is felt, and there's no guarantee they'll get anything back for it.

Most of what gets called sacrifice doesn't fit that definition. Staying late at work because you're afraid of what people will think if you leave isn't a sacrifice. Saying yes when you want to say no because conflict feels unbearable isn't sacrifice. From the outside these might look like someone being selfless or committed, but the person doing them usually feels drained and resentful. 

What you're willing to sacrifice tells the truth about what you value. You can say anything matters to you, but the pattern of what you actually give up reveals what's really at the center.

Yours in the journey,

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the space between want and need

Dear Reader,

Our daughter is fifteen months old now, and one thing we've been noticing is how clear her needs still are. When she's hungry, she goes to the fridge. When she's uncomfortable, she lets us know immediately. When she's tired, she gets fussy and rubs her eyes. There's no confusion, or second-guessing or wondering if she's being too demanding. Her body tells her what it needs and she (and we) respond.

Somewhere between infancy and adulthood, most of us lose that clarity. We learn to override our needs, to question whether they're legitimate, to feel guilty for having them at all. And in that confusion, wants and needs start to blur together until we can't tell which is which anymore.

But needs are actually pretty straightforward. Your body needs food, water, rest, safety, connection. Your mind needs stimulation, purpose, some measure of control over your life. Your heart needs to be seen and valued by people who matter to you. That's mostly it. Everything else lives in the territory of want, and there's nothing wrong with that except when we pretend otherwise.

The confusion causes problems when we treat wants like needs. When we act like we'll fall apart without something we actually just prefer to have. When we create urgency around things that are genuinely optional. When we make other people responsible for meeting wants we've convinced ourselves are needs. That's when relationships get strained and we end up feeling perpetually deprived even when we have enough.

It works the other way too. Sometimes we minimize real needs by calling them wants, as if needing things makes us weak or burdensome. You might tell yourself you want your partner to listen when you talk about your day, when what you actually need is to feel like your inner life matters to them. You might say you want more rest when what you need is to stop running yourself into the ground.

What helps us is getting specific. Instead of "I need this to feel better," we ask "What would actually happen if I didn't get this?" If the answer is genuine harm or a serious compromise to well-being, it's probably a need. If the answer is disappointment or discomfort but we'd ultimately be fine, it's a want. Both matter, but they don't matter in the same way.

Knowing the difference doesn't solve everything, but it makes the asking clearer.

Yours in the journey,

Looking for more Moments? Intentional Moments Archive

how you walk the path

Dear Reader,

We spend a lot of energy thinking about outcomes. Did it work? Did we get there? Was it worth it? But somewhere along the way, we started measuring our lives only by endpoints, as if the hours and days we spend getting somewhere don't count unless we arrive at the right destination.

I've been thinking about this because I watched a client recently finish a project they'd been working on for months. The result was good, exactly what they'd hoped for. But getting there had been miserable. They'd pushed through exhaustion, snapped at people they cared about, and spent weeks feeling anxious and disconnected. When it was done, they felt relieved but not proud. The finish line didn't erase how they'd gotten there.

What if how we do something matters as much as what we accomplish? Not in some precious, everything-must-be-perfect way, but in a more honest one. The way you treat people while you're stressed reveals something. The shortcuts you're willing to take tell you what you actually value. The parts of yourself you're willing to sacrifice to get somewhere faster, those losses don't disappear just because you arrived.

This applies to the small things too. You can get dinner on the table and also make everyone around you tense in the process. You can finish your work and leave a trail of half-answers and avoided conversations behind you. You can reach your goal and realize you became someone you don't recognize along the way.

I'm not saying the middle has to feel good. Hard work is hard, and growth often comes with discomfort. But there's a difference between difficulty that's part of the process and cruelty you're inflicting on yourself or others because you've decided only the end result matters. One builds something. The other just burns through people and hope until you get where you're going.

The path shapes you as much as the destination does. Maybe more.

Yours in the journey,

Looking for more Moments? Intentional Moments Archive

when being right doesn’t matter

Dear Reader,

A couple sat in my office last week, locked in an argument about something that happened months ago. He was convinced she'd agreed to something. She was equally certain she hadn't. What struck me wasn't who was right, it was how badly they both needed to be.

He pulled out his phone to show me the text thread that would prove his point. She immediately tensed, arms crossed, already preparing her defense before he'd even found the message. I watched them both gearing up for a battle neither of them actually wanted to fight.

I asked them to pause. Then I asked him what he hoped would happen if he could prove he was right. He stopped scrolling and looked up. After a long silence he said he just wanted her to stop treating him like he makes things up. She wanted him to stop acting like her memory couldn't be trusted. Neither of them cared about the original disagreement anymore. They were fighting about feeling dismissed.

This happens constantly in relationships. We argue about facts when what we're really fighting for is to be seen, to be valued, to not feel small or wrong or like we're losing our grip on reality. Being right becomes a stand-in for being heard, and we convince ourselves that if we can just prove our version of events, the other person will finally understand.

But proving someone wrong doesn't make them feel understood. It makes them feel defensive. You can be factually correct and still damage the relationship by insisting on it. The person across from you stops listening the moment they realize you're trying to win rather than trying to connect.

Being right doesn't always get you what you want. Sometimes it just gets you right.

Yours in the journey,

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