Nothing Happened. That Was The Problem

Here's the thing about unrepaired conflict: the damage doesn't go away just because the moment does.

If someone dents your car and drives away, the dent doesn't magically fix itself. If you scrape the wall while moving furniture, it won't repaint itself once the couch is in place.

Damage that isn't repaired remains—quietly, stubbornly, accumulating over time.

The same is true in relationships. Every unrepaired conflict leaves a residue. A slight withdrawal of trust. A small tightening around the heart. A subtle but growing sense that this person isn't entirely safe, that closeness carries risk, that it's better to keep things surface-level.

We don't always notice it happening. But over months and years, those small deposits of unresolved hurt compound. They become distance. Estrangement. The quiet erosion of what was once close and warm.

And here's the deeper truth: conflict is not only inevitable in relationships—it's essential. The places where we don't see eye to eye are often the places where we have the most to learn from each other. Difference, tension, and even disagreement are the raw material of growth. The problem isn't conflict. The problem is what we do—or don't do—after it.

Drs. John and Julie Gottman have studied thousands of couples over decades, and their research is clear: it's not the presence of conflict that determines the health of a relationship—it's the ratio of repair to rupture.

Couples who repair well can weather enormous storms. Those who do not repair slowly drift apart like two boats untethered on a seemingly calm lake. 

Their research also reveals that effective repair isn't simply about saying sorry and moving on. It requires both people to slow down, name what they feel, hear each other's experience without defensiveness, and take genuine ownership of their part.

The couples who do this well—who can suspend contempt, criticism, and stonewalling long enough to actually understand each other—are the ones who come out of conflict closer than they went in.

Terry Real puts it simply: healthy relationships are a continual cycle of harmony, disharmony, and repair. Most of us know harmony well—and most of us know disharmony far better than we'd like. What almost none of us were ever taught is what comes next.

Repair is the missing piece. And it changes everything.

Repair isn't kissing and making up. It isn't a rushed apology or a mutual agreement to move on and hope for the best. A real repair moves both people toward greater understanding—and that understanding, done well, actually deepens the relationship.

Here's how:

1. Feelings First. Before anything else, each person identifies the emotions they experienced during the conflict. This isn't soft or sentimental—it's strategic. Emotions are data. They tell us what felt threatening, what felt dismissive, what felt like love, and what didn't. The more clearly we can name them, the more likely we’ll be understood.

2. Each Person's Reality. Someone has to go first. One person shares their full subjective experience of what happened—not to win, but to be known. The other listens without interrupting, then summarizes what they heard and validates it. Validating doesn't mean agreeing. It means saying, "I can see how it looked that way from where you were standing." Then you switch. When both people know they'll get their turn to be heard, the defensiveness drops significantly. The catch is that validation requires something most of us resist—setting aside our ego and our need to be right long enough to genuinely see another person's reality.

3. Triggers and Their Roots. Every conflict has a trigger—a moment that landed harder than it might have for someone else. Naming those triggers opens a door. Often, they trace back further than the current conflict: to an old wound, a childhood pattern, a story we started telling ourselves long before this relationship existed. When we can share those stories—when we can say "this reminded me of..."—we give the other person a window into our interior world. That's where real intimacy lives.

4. Ownership. What part can you own? Even one percent. Even a small acknowledgment that you were stressed, distracted, harsh in your tone, or slow to listen. This isn't about assigning blame. It's about recognizing that every relationship is an energy system, and every disruption in that system involves more than one person. The willingness to authentically admit "here's my part" is one of the most disarming and connecting things a human being can do.

5. A Constructive Plan. Finally, repair closes with intention: What could I do differently next time? What would help you feel safer or more understood? You won't execute this perfectly. But setting the intention together signals that this isn't just about getting past the conflict—it's about growing through it.

Repair isn't a conversation you have once and check off the list. It's a relational skill that grows stronger the more you use it.

Here are three proactive ways to start developing it—before you're in the middle of a conflict that demands it.

1. Do a Repair Inventory. Set aside 20 quiet minutes and ask yourself honestly: In my most important relationships right now, are there unrepaired moments still sitting between us? Not to open every wound at once, but to name what's there. Unacknowledged ruptures have a way of quietly shaping how we show up—how much we share, how close we let people get, how quickly we pull back when things get uncomfortable. Writing them down is the beginning of taking them seriously.

2. Become Aware of What Triggers You. The repair process asks you to identify what triggered your reaction during conflict—and many of those triggers trace back further than the current argument. Don't wait for a conflict to start that journey of self-discovery. Spend some time reflecting on your patterns: What tends to make you shut down or flare up? When have you felt those feelings before? Where did you first learn that conflict was unsafe, or that your feelings didn't matter, or that love came with conditions? The more self-aware you are before conflict arrives, the less hijacked you'll be when it does. And the less likely you are to blame the other person for your reaction.

3. Practice Low-Stakes Repairs First. Most of us wait for a major rupture before we attempt a repair, which is like trying to run a marathon without ever having trained. Start small. The next time your tone gets sharp, you're dismissive, or a small misunderstanding creates a moment of distance, go back and address it. Not defensively, not with a full five-step process—just with honesty: "Hey, I didn't show up well in that moment. I'm sorry." Or simpler still—ask for a do-over. "Can I try that again?" And then do it differently. That small act, repeated consistently, rewires the relational culture between you and another person. It signals: in this relationship, we don't just let things pass. We come back for each other.

Teresa and I have sat with many people over the years, but that session stayed with me. Two people who honestly cared about each other, separated by decades of moments that had passed without repair. No villains in the story. No dramatic betrayals. Just a long, quiet accumulation of what happens when we haven’t learned to repair well.

The truth is, most of us are still figuring this out.

Repair doesn't require you to go back and fix everything at once. It doesn't demand a perfect conversation or a flawless apology. It just requires a decision: that the relationship matters more than the discomfort of going back.

Start with one moment. One person. One honest sentence.

Because repair is a skill—and like every skill worth having, it grows with practice. And here's what nobody tells you: the more you do it, the safer the relationship becomes. Not because conflict disappears. But because both people learn, over time, that this isn't the end of the story.

And that’s no small thing. Anyone can talk about love. Going back to repair—that's what it looks like to actually live love well.

Until next week,

Jonathan Penner | Co-Founder & Executive Director of LifeApp

1. Where did you learn — or not learn — how to repair? Think back to the home or environment you grew up in. When conflict happened, what did the adults around you do? Did anyone ever go back and address what happened, or did life just move on? How have those early patterns shaped the way you handle conflict and repair in your relationships today?

This question is designed to open the conversation gently, invite personal story, and help people connect their present patterns to their past — without requiring anyone to go deep before they're ready.

2. Is there an unrepaired moment in one of your important relationships right now — and what has it cost you? Not every wound needs to be named publicly, but this question invites honest reflection: Is there distance between you and someone that was built not by a single dramatic event, but by accumulated moments that just... passed? What would it mean — and what would it take — to go back?

This question moves the group from reflection to personal inventory. It's the most vulnerable of the three and may prompt quiet acknowledgment as much as open sharing.

3. What makes repair feel dangerous — and what would make it feel possible? For most of us, going back isn't just uncomfortable — it feels risky. Why? What are we afraid will happen if we try to repair and it doesn't go well? And on the other side: what conditions, what words, what kind of relationship culture would make you more willing to go back? What would need to be true for repair to feel like something you could actually do?

This question shifts the group toward the future and toward action. It surfaces the real barriers to repair — not just the lack of skill, but the fear underneath — and opens space for honest conversation about what love actually requires.

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