8: What Happens When We Try to Repair
The final essay in the series of 3. Why leaving might feel powerful, but staying is almost always the braver choice.
We live in a culture that worships endings. The break-up, the divorce, the reset. Leave. Reinvent. Protect yourself. Rewrite the story. There's something seductive about the clean break. It offers a kind of false power: the illusion that by walking away, we regain control.
But here’s what almost no one tells you: staying is almost always the braver thing.
Repairing, actually trying to repair, is hard. It’s quiet work. Unseen work. Often unrewarded in the moment. It demands consistency in the face of coldness, presence without applause, and emotional strength that doesn’t perform. That kind of strength doesn’t trend. It doesn’t sell. But it might be the most important kind of strength there is. It isn't a "quick fix" with the drama of walking away, the apparent flourish of a new life. Let's be clear, it isn’t something you post on social media. A long, slow, drawn out process doesn’t Instagram well.
The Cultural Push to Walk Away
I have felt it myself. The world around me giving subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) cues to let go. When things get difficult in a relationship, there is a chorus of voices ready to encourage detachment. "You deserve better," they say. "You don’t owe anyone anything."
Even therapists, like the one I have experience with, can direct people toward separation under the banner of empowerment. But that guidance isn’t always rooted in truth. Sometimes it’s a projection of their own pain. Sometimes it's just easier to suggest breaking than fixing.
I can understand why. Repair isn’t just hard, it’s messy. It requires one person to stand firm while the other might still be pulling away. It asks you to believe in something that no one else sees yet. And in a world that measures progress by how quickly you move on, staying can look like failure.
What Repair Really Looks Like
Here’s what people don’t see: the daily messages sent with no expectation of reply. The dinners cooked for the family without any fanfare. The decisions made to protect the children from the undercurrent of uncertainty. The willingness to take responsibility for your part in what went wrong, even if the other person isn’t ready to meet you there.
I’ve been doing that work for a long time. Sometimes it feels relentless. I’ve held space when it wasn’t reciprocated. Chosen calm when I wanted to rage. Given softness when I could have shut down. There are moments when it would have been easier to walk away and write my own story elsewhere. But I couldn’t do that. Not just because I love her, but because I believe that wholeness is possible. And because I refuse to let our children grow up thinking people are disposable, that they are disposable.
Repair doesn’t mean returning to the old version of the relationship. It means reimagining something better, something more honest. That kind of work doesn’t happen in a single conversation. It happens across time, through small, repeated choices. It's not a moment of forgiveness or a dramatic breakthrough. It's a new discipline.
That has taken me a long time to understand. I’ve heard the phrase, “the old relationship is dead, grieve it and seek a new, better one.” On the surface, it sounds simple. But living it? Not so much. It’s a simple idea, but the experience is anything but. This isn’t something that can be prescribed. It can only unfold with time. What it looks like for me, and how I come to understand it, will differ from what it looks like for you.
And often, this kind of work begins right at the edge of what most people would call the end. Which brings me to something I’m seeing more and more often: the three stages of love. The honeymoon. The power struggle. And the conscious relationship. Most relationships never make it past stage two, the power struggle, because that’s the point where most people give up. They think the conflict means it’s broken. But what if the conflict is the gateway? What if it’s the compost from which something conscious and truly lasting can grow?
And this is where we need to talk about what love actually is, and what it isn’t. Love isn’t the chemical rush most people associate with romance. That’s biology, not commitment. It’s not the flutter of excitement, the butterflies, the spark. That’s stage one. And it always fades.
Love, real love, begins when the spark fades. It’s not a feeling you chase. It’s a choice you make. Not once, but again and again, every day, every hour, every moment. It’s a conscious decision to stay, to show up, to speak kindly even when you’re tired or hurt. It’s the daily commitment to act with love even when you don’t feel loved in return. It’s not easy. I’ve often heard people say, “It’s meant to be easy,” or “It shouldn’t be this hard.” But honestly, that’s not the truth. Love that lasts, love that matures, is forged in difficulty. Nothing worth doing is easy.
Repair is the work of stage three. It’s not passive. It’s not about waiting for the other person to change. It’s about becoming the person the relationship needs, without becoming a doormat. It’s about emotional maturity and spiritual clarity. You start to recognise that love isn’t a reaction, it’s a responsibility. A discipline. A way of being.
What You Learn When You Stay
When you try to repair, you start to learn a different kind of strength. You learn how to hold a boundary without hardening. You start leading emotionally, not by controlling the outcome, but by setting a tone. You realise that your commitment isn’t about getting your needs met, not immediately, at least. It’s about creating the conditions where trust could exist again.
I used to think strength was about resilience in the face of pressure. Now I think it’s also about emotional regulation under provocation. It’s about not letting someone else's confusion or coldness take you off track. Not punishing them for where they are. Not collapsing under their inconsistency.
That’s the hardest part. You don’t get to control the timeline. You just keep showing up, even when it’s inconvenient, even when it feels like no one notices.
The Small Signs That Matter
But sometimes, things shift. Not in declarations or dramatic changes. In tone. In energy. In small moments of gratitude. A message that lands differently. A warmer thank you. A willingness to linger a little longer.
Those things matter. They don’t mean the work is done, but they mean it’s not in vain. They suggest that something in the other person is beginning to feel safe again. And that safety is the soil in which everything else might grow.
Repair happens in millimetres. And those millimetres matter more than most people realise.
When It Isn't Reciprocated
There are no guarantees. Repair might not be accepted. You might stay open and still be met with indifference. That’s the risk. But even then, it changes you. It forces you to grow. It builds integrity into your bones. Because you’re not doing it to manipulate an outcome. You’re doing it because you know that walking away without trying would fracture something in you.
And yes, you can walk away. You can choose a new partner. Start again. Build something else. But if you haven’t done the work to repair, not just the relationship, but yourself, then all you’ve done is delayed the reckoning. The same wounds will follow you. The same patterns will repeat. And the cost won’t just be yours to carry. It spills into your ex’s life, your children’s lives, your new partner’s, their children’s. The damage multiplies.
Repair isn’t just about getting back together. It’s about doing what’s needed to become whole again, so that whatever comes next, whether reunion or release, is built on clarity rather than escape.
You may not get what you want. But you will become someone you respect.
The Strength of Staying
This essay isn’t a call for martyrdom. It’s not about grovelling or waiting endlessly for someone who won’t meet you. It’s about recognising that the masculine path isn’t always forward or out. Sometimes it’s down, deeper into stillness, patience and responsibility.
Staying, when done with clarity and boundaries, is not weakness. It is one of the clearest expressions of mature masculinity. And it is rare.
In a world of exits, be a man who knows how to remain.
Repair is not for the faint of heart. But if we want wholeness, in ourselves, in our families, in our culture, it is the only way forward.
If you found something in this essay that resonated, challenged or moved you, I’d love for you to share it. Maybe you know someone who’s navigating this terrain, someone who’s considering giving up, or who’s been told that repair isn’t worth it. Maybe you know someone who completely disagrees. Either way, pass it on. These conversations matter.