Ruptures Happen. The Magic Lies in the Repair.

At a World Cup finals party a few weeks ago, my husband and I were having a great time eating Argentinian and Spanish foods, catching up with friends and watching the game. 

Normally our seven-year-old daughter loves a party too. But for some reason, on this day she just wasn’t feeling it. The longer we were there, the more out of sorts – agitated, anxious, dysregulated – she became. 

Normally when she’s having a tough time, I make my number one priority to slow down, tune in, connect with her to suss out what she’s needing, and tend to that need. 

But in this particular moment, I really just wanted to enjoy watching this soccer game and chatting with friends, and, while I’m not proud to admit it…

I kind of downplayed her feelings. 

I tried to nudge her back into drawing in her sketchpad (without needing me to give her constant ideas of what to draw). We tried offering a bunch of different foods (none of which she was loving). 

She eventually said, tears welling up, “I want to go home.” 

The cold, hard truth is her needs felt inconvenient to me in that moment, so I tried to maneuver my way around them.

Thankfully, while a less than compassionate part had taken the wheel within me, my husband saw that she was having a tough time and beautifully dialed in, asking “Is it feeling a little loud in here for you? You wanna come out to the backyard with me for a bit?” (Extra shout-out to this solid partner and attuned dad whose beloved home Argentine team was playing in the game.) 

She lit up with relief, headed to the backyard to kick the soccer ball around with him, and by the time I went to check on them shortly later, she was her usual chipper self again. 

By this point, I felt a surge of – appropriate, useful – guilt and felt clear that I needed to initiate a repair with her. So once we got home and were both feeling regulated and calm again in a quiet space and moment, I snuggled up with her and said: 

“Hey kiddo, I’m really sorry I didn’t clue in to how overstimulated you were at the party and do a better job of supporting you. Looking back, I can see how being in that big a group, at that volume, with a bunch of people you didn’t know really seemed to just feel like too much. That’s totally understandable.

I’m really glad Dad tuned into what you were needing when I kinda missed it this time. You did a great job of noticing what was happening inside your body and letting us know. I always want to know when something is feeling like too much for you, and I promise I’ll try to do a better job of cluing in sooner next time. 

I wanted to be sure you knew that I was sorry I missed this one, that it’s so wonderful how you’re paying attention to what you’re needing, and that I love you so much — always, no matter what.” 

I could feel her body soften with relief at hearing these words, and now that she was regulated and feeling safe again, she was able to respond with sweet empathy to me, too: 

“It’s OK. I get it. Anybody would have of course wanted to watch the World Cup finals game!! Thank you for always making me feel better.”

We shared a long hug and spent the rest of the afternoon reconnecting.

It’s such a natural human instinct to retreat into our turtle shell when we feel we’ve done something “wrong” or hurt someone we care about.

It really does take courage to stick out neck out there to initiate a repair after a moment of rupture in a close relationship.

It really is vulnerable to admit where we could have done better and scary to step into the uncertainty of not knowing how the other person will respond. 

But pausing to honestly acknowledge where we missed something with someone we care about actually shows the depth of our care.

We’re implicitly expressing, “I care about you too much to pretend I didn’t see how much that hurt you. I’m willing to feel some discomfort within myself in order to help you feel seen.”

And the paradoxical thing is, owning our blind spots often lets the other person feel even more seen and cared about than before the rupture occurred.

Most of us didn’t grow up having this type of rupture-repair cycle modeled for us. But the great news is that even if we’re not parents now, we can initiate these types of repairs with younger parts within ourselves, too. 

When we attune to another person or to a part of ourselves that has felt alone, unsupported, angry, scared or unseen, it builds trust. 

The energetic communication through a genuine “I’m sorry” and “I love you” can absolutely not be underestimated.

When we feel truly seen, understood and held, we feel known. And that’s so core to what we humans are craving. 

Ruptures will happen again and again. It’s a natural part of human relating. We don’t get it right all the time because, how could we possibly?? 

Being human is complex.

Relating in a way that simultaneously honors two people’s unique needs, desires and constitutions is tricky, to say the least.

Ruptures happen. The magic – and the healing – lies in the repair.

Lots of Love,

Melissa

PS - If you’re curious about exploring these themes in a personalized way, be in touch about 1:1 coaching possibilities.