I Am Not Sure I Have Ever Seen Healthy Up Close

For most of my adult life, I’ve been able to explain what a secure relationship is supposed to look like.

I can talk about repair. I can talk about regulation. I can explain co-regulation versus emotional fusion. I understand the theory of secure attachment well enough to outline it in detail.

What I’m less certain about is whether I’ve ever experienced that kind of steadiness in a sustained, embodied way.

Not the early-stage closeness. Not the intensity that comes from surviving something together. Not the loyalty that grows from endurance.

I mean the kind of connection that doesn’t require vigilance.

The kind where your nervous system isn’t subtly scanning for shifts in tone. The kind where disagreement doesn’t feel like the beginning of collapse. The kind where expressing a need doesn’t come with an internal cost.

I didn’t grow up watching explosive love. What I saw was quieter than that — two people who cared about each other but slowly stopped knowing how to reach each other. There was no dramatic rupture. Just gradual distance.

That kind of template teaches something subtle: love can exist without stability.

As an adult, I became highly competent in relationships. I learned to articulate feelings clearly. I learned to take responsibility quickly. I learned to anticipate tension before it escalated. I learned how to remain composed even when I felt unsettled.

Composure can look like security.

It isn’t always.

There’s a difference between being skilled at managing dynamics and actually feeling safe inside them.

I’ve been skilled for a long time.

Safety is newer territory.

Safety, I’m discovering, isn’t about intensity. It’s not about passion or grand declarations or even depth of feeling. It’s about predictability. It’s about emotional responses that don’t swing wildly. It’s about knowing that honesty won’t be met with punishment.

It’s about not bracing.

And if I pay attention to my body, bracing has been my baseline more often than I realized.

That doesn’t mean I haven’t loved deeply. I have. It doesn’t mean I haven’t been loyal. I’ve stayed through things many people wouldn’t. It doesn’t mean there hasn’t been real connection.

It means my nervous system learned vigilance before it learned rest.

When people say “choose healthy,” they’re speaking from logic. The body doesn’t choose from logic. It chooses from familiarity. And familiarity, for many of us, is shaped early.

If erosion is what you witnessed, tension can feel normal. If misunderstandings lingered, hyper-awareness can feel responsible. If love and instability coexisted, intensity can feel synonymous with closeness.

Rewiring that takes time.

I’m beginning to recognize that I’ve experienced attachment, devotion, and emotional depth — but sustained regulation inside partnership is something I’m still learning how to recognize and trust.

Healthy might feel quieter than I expect. It might feel ordinary. It might feel like consistency rather than chemistry.

That doesn’t make it less meaningful.

It just makes it unfamiliar.

And unfamiliar is something I’m slowly teaching my body not to interpret as danger.

I don’t see this as failure anymore. I see it as recalibration. There’s a difference between being incapable of healthy love and simply not having had a clear model for it.

One is shame. The other is growth.

I’m choosing growth.