The Static Between Us: Emotional Misattunement in Long-Term Relationships
- The Broken & Beautiful
- Apr 6
- 6 min read
Updated: Apr 19
The Long Work of Love — Essay #5
Reflections on marriage, misattunement, and learning to speak what’s actually true.
In Essay number 4, I said that I wanted to write about the messes we create in our relationships and talk about some practical ways to open a line of connection that is less staticky, less fraught with fear, and less overwhelming.
Jerry and I have always enjoyed a particular type of ease with one another. Even on our first date, we spent the time chatting easily about our lives, our stories, what we loved—falling into a rhythm of contentment with each other. Both musicians, both creatives, both emotionally attuned, we had many similarities that naturally coalesced into a steady and stable relationship. Up until now, our relationship hasn’t been marked by passionate outbursts or jealous rages—or anything like that.
For some of you reading this, you might be tempted to dismiss what I’m about to say. Perhaps you don’t have a stable or steady relationship. Perhaps yours is marked by passion—or even violence. If so, I urge you to continue.
Sometimes the less dramatic stories carry a balm that can meet us in a different, kinder way. Intensity and intimacy are very different things. Both are necessary. Balance is required. And I think, in many ways, that’s why we’ve made it. Because we do show up.
One of the things that’s always been true about us is that we show up. Sometimes imploding with anger—but we arrive. Doing the right thing is deeply embedded in our value system, and this is one of the ways we live that out.
When it matters, we show up.
We also don’t hold grudges.
We don’t do silent treatments.
We don’t pull our kids into our frustration with each other.
We don’t punish each other when we’re overwhelmed.
Those things were never strategies for us.
No—for us, it’s a much more uncomfortable silence, marked by smiles and avoidance of conflict.
And that’s where the mess begins.
The Quiet Misattunement That Builds Over Time
Jerry and I were talking yesterday about something that happened in 2003 or 2004. We had just purchased a new home that was a stretch financially. That stretch was my desire. These things are almost always my idea—with him focused on calm and me focused on security.
While Jerry was all in by the time we moved in, we didn’t have extra cash. And apparently, in his mind, the obvious concessions I would make around the landscaping and interior of the home would even things out. He would never have thought in terms of keeping score. But looking back, we can both see how that showed up here.
So, back to the house.
If I wanted the house to become what I envisioned, we were going to have to do a lot of the work ourselves. Read “we” as him—because I’m allergic to physical labor. Emotionally allergic, that is.
One of the things he really wanted was a sprinkler system. Of course, we didn’t have the $3–4K it would take to have it professionally installed. That voice most of us have that says, you probably shouldn’t do this? For Jerry, it sounds more like, you can probably do this in a blink of an eye.
So off he went to a rental company and came back with a handheld boring tool. He had a plan. He had allotted one day to complete the tunneling and tilling for our quarter-acre yard.
After about an hour—and only two lines tilled—he called the rental company back. Frustrated and up against clay-filled ground, they assured him all he needed was a bobcat with the proper attachment. Believe it or not, we had a bobcat delivered that same day.
Even with the bobcat, it took all day. Sod was arriving the next morning, ready or not. We didn’t have a choice.
Now, I’m a girlie girl—but I have to tell you, when I saw the bobcat show up, I got excited. I wanted to drive it. After all, that’s very different from physical labor. And by the following evening, all you could hear was the shhhshhhshhh of sprinklers watering our brand-new sod.
To complete the prep, we worked late into the night. We were tired when we were finished. I don’t remember talking about it much at the time, so when it came up yesterday, we spent some time wondering what actually happened.
Yes—it took us 20 years to circle back to it. I don’t recommend it. But that is our particular brand of “issue.” Because while we worked together beautifully in moments like that—moments of ingenuity, creativity, and shared energy—we were also quietly creating an emotional mess.
Not the obvious kind.
Not screaming or throwing things.
But the kind that builds slowly when two people don’t say what’s actually true.
Both ways are violent.
One is just easier to see.
The house was my idea.
We stretched financially to make it happen.
I lived forward-looking.
He lived curled tightly around the pocketbook.
I oriented myself toward stability by keeping my eye on the next step—always just ahead.
He avoided abundance.
I avoided scarcity.
I had goals around security—investment, risk, stewardship—making every dollar count.
Jerry had goals, too. He wanted to settle my desire down. So he kept moving forward physically—doing all the things—while remaining emotionally unavailable. This created something unspoken but real between us. Our kids will tell you it felt like awkward silences.
Pregnant moments.
Unrepaired conflict.
That’s hard to hear. I was frustrated with how he worked out his avoidance of conflict. His instinct was to do everything by hand. Without telling me when he was angry. If he had asked me what I thought, I would have told him to double the timeline. Maybe even triple it.
Except he didn’t ask—because he didn’t know I had that capacity, and he didn’t really want my help.
And I didn’t say how angry and hurt that made me. That pattern played out over and over again. Not in dramatic ways. But in small, accumulating moments. He moved forward based on instinct and avoidance. I adjusted internally based on mine. And somewhere in between, something essential was missing.
Not effort.
Not care.
Not commitment.
Clarity.
Consent.
When Showing Up Isn’t the Same as Being Known
We were both showing up. But we weren’t known in how we were showing up. And for us—that’s where the static comes in.
Not in big moments.
Not in visible breakdowns.
But in subtle misalignments that go unnamed.
The places where:
one person is adapting instead of expressing
one person is assuming instead of asking
both people are trying to do the right thing…
without actually saying what is true
Like I said. A mess.
Static doesn’t mean the relationship is broken. It means the signal isn’t clear. And for a long time, we didn’t know that—much less how to tune into our own frequency, let alone each other’s or the relationship itself. Because nothing was technically wrong.
We were kind.
We were committed.
We were doing our best.
But we weren’t honest about what was happening underneath.
It took years—decades, really—to recognize that the mess in our relationship wasn’t about what we were doing. It was about what we were not saying. And more than that—what we didn’t yet know how to say.
Saying What’s True (Even When It Costs You)
Contrary to some oft-repeated mantras, speaking honestly is not as simple as “communicating better.” It requires something deeper.
Awareness of what you’re actually feeling.
The ability to stay connected to yourself while you speak.
The willingness to risk being known in ways that may not land perfectly.
Humility.
Desire.
And deep hope.
I sometimes call it “stupid hope.” Not because it’s naive—but because it doesn’t come from evidence.
It’s not a memory of the past.
It’s more like a memory of the future.
Not idealized.
More like a vision.
A prophetic imagination for what could be—and then making small adjustments toward it. That kind of clarity doesn’t come naturally. Not even for us. Maybe especially not for us.
It’s learned.
Slowly.
Painstakingly.
And sometimes, painfully.
And it often begins in the smallest places.
Like a backyard.
A bobcat.
A memory so old you wonder if it’s even worth revisiting.
I don’t know… maybe I’m more of an idealist than I like to admit. But I believe even “old” relationships are worth tending to. Even years later. Because connection isn’t just about staying. It’s about being able to find each other clearly again.
Starting there.
And moving forward together.
Start from the beginning...
Dear Reader,
As a gentle reminder, I offer these reflections not from a place of arrival, but from within the process itself. That is how this work unfolds.
As always, my hope is that you feel met—even in a small way—exactly where you are today.
Love,
Patria
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