Why Do I Keep Going Back?

Perhaps that's the question almost everyone asks themselves after finally breaking free from an unhealthy dynamic.

Why does it feel so incredibly hard to walk away? Why does it feel, even after you've closed the door behind you, as though invisible strings are still pulling you back? Why do you keep thinking: Maybe this time...

Why can an unhealthy relationship—whether with family, a (former) partner or a friend—feel so addictive? Why does it keep pulling you back?

This isn't just about romantic relationships. It can just as easily be about family members who don't treat you with respect, friendships that leave you feeling drained, one-sided or superficial, or a work environment where you keep losing yourself. The dynamics are often surprisingly similar.

The answer surprised me.

I didn't keep going back because I was weak, nor because I couldn't live without the other person. I kept going back because my nervous system had spent years adapting to a dynamic that had become familiar.

I remember it vividly. During a relationship in my teens, he cheated on me, lied to me and sometimes became physically violent. The first time, it completely caught me off guard. I playfully ran my fingers through his hair and before I knew it, he headbutted me. He immediately apologised, and I believed him. Surely he hadn't meant to do it. The second time, I stood up to him and convinced myself it was probably my own fault. By the third time, I no longer believed his apologies. I simply stopped showing that it hurt.

Eventually, whenever I confronted him about his behaviour or his lies, I somehow ended up being the one crying and apologising. And when I finally found the courage to leave, I would still go back whenever he begged me for another chance. A few weeks later, the cycle would begin all over again.

Because it wasn't just my nervous system.

It was also the hope that this time things would be different. The belief that love was something you had to work hard for. My mind already knew I needed to stay away, but my body simply didn't know how yet. Over time I became increasingly isolated. My world grew smaller, making it even harder to leave.

Later, I began to wonder where that belief had come from. That question eventually led me back to my childhood.

As a child, I had learned that love was something you earned by adapting yourself to others. Without realising it, I carried that belief into adulthood.

In relationships it became: Maybe if I communicate a little better... Maybe if I read one more book... Maybe if I open my heart just a little wider... Maybe this time... then it will finally work.

And even after a breakup, the same thought kept returning: Maybe this time...

It took me many years to realise that all of those thoughts came from the very same belief: The solution must be me.

Oddly enough, that belief also gave me a sense of control. Because if the solution was me, then surely I could fix it. So I kept searching for what I could do differently. Only much later did I realise that not everything was mine to fix. And that by constantly jumping in to solve the problem, I wasn't giving the other person the opportunity to take responsibility or come up with a solution themselves.

But that wasn't the whole story.

If it had been bad all the time, I probably would have left much sooner. That was exactly what made it so confusing. There were beautiful moments too. We laughed. There was connection. There were apologies. There was hope. Sometimes there was even genuine love.

I kept focusing on the potential. On the moments when everything felt good. Looking back, I realise that I paid most of my attention to the eighty percent that seemed okay, while constantly minimising the twenty percent that was actually hurting me.

Until I realised that one headbutt is not erased by a hundred loving moments. A boundary violation is still a boundary violation.

For someone else, it may not be a headbutt. It may be a humiliating comment. Having your boundaries crossed again and again. Being made to feel small. Or repeatedly feeling unseen. The form may differ. The pattern often doesn't.

Love and safety are not defined by how beautiful the good moments are, but by what happens when things become difficult.

How are you treated when you set a boundary, when you're hurt, when you disagree, or when you express criticism?

Those moments tell you far more about the safety of a relationship than all the pleasant moments that came before.

Safety isn't found in the exceptions. It's found in the pattern.

Someone first had to become worth protecting

For a long time, I believed my problem was that I couldn't set boundaries. Today, I see it differently.

My problem wasn't that I couldn't say no. My problem was that, deep down, I didn't yet feel that I was worth protecting.

Because if you don't truly feel that, you can read a hundred books about boundaries. You can learn exactly how to say no. You can recognise healthy behaviour when you see it. But as long as you don't deeply believe that your feelings, your life and your boundaries deserve just as much space as anyone else's, that no will always remain fragile.

For me, things only began to change when my body slowly started to feel safe enough not only to understand boundaries, but to actually feel them.

I used to think boundaries were something you figured out with your mind. Now I know they're also something you can notice in your body.

My gut usually knows before my mind does. My breathing changes. My shoulders tense up. I hold my breath. My jaw tightens. I feel restless.

Or, just as importantly, I feel space. Ease. My body often notices what's happening long before my mind catches up.

Thankfully, my internal red flag detector finally works too. And that has made life so much easier.

Because familiar is not the same as safe. That was something I had to learn not only to understand, but to recognise in my own body.

Safety doesn't begin with someone else. It begins with the relationship you have with yourself.

That doesn't mean I never doubt myself anymore. It simply means I recognise the signals much sooner.

❤️

Reflection

Where in your life are you still hoping that "this time" it will be different?