Why Do We Stay? Notes from the Therapy Room

Some sessions stay with me longer than others. This week, a few conversations about relationships did just that. Not the easy ones — the ones that leave people feeling stuck. Caught between what they hoped things would be and what they’ve actually become.

It’s rarely black and white. People stay for reasons that don’t always make sense from the outside — comfort, familiarity, fear of change. Sometimes it’s just hard to imagine anything different.

What’s striking is how often people apologise for this. As if loving someone imperfectly or staying too long in something that no longer fits makes them weak or foolish. But it’s not weakness — it’s human. There’s a kind of grief in letting go of the life you’ve invested in, even when that life no longer feels like yours.

We’re wired for connection. It’s biology, not just preference. And the nervous system doesn’t care whether someone is good for us — it cares that they’re familiar. That predictability, even in dysfunction, can feel safer than the unknown. When we bond with someone, especially in close or intimate relationships, our brains release oxytocin, the “bonding hormone.” It deepens attachment — even when the connection is painful — because it rewards proximity and emotional closeness, regardless of healthiness.

And then there’s the hope. The quiet, persistent belief that maybe things will change. That if we just try harder, or give it more time, we can get back to how things were. Or maybe how we imagined they could be.

I’ve noticed how often people talk about not wanting to “start over.” There’s so much weight in those two words. The exhaustion of dating again, the fear of loneliness, the shared history that’s hard to walk away from. Sometimes people aren’t choosing to stay — they just don’t feel like they have another choice that makes sense yet.

It’s complicated. No one teaches us how to do relationships well — we learn from what we see, from what we survive, and from whatever culture or community we’re shaped by. Add in the noise of social media, shifting values, and the economic pressure of simply surviving — and suddenly even love feels like something we’re trying to hack or optimise.

So people stay. And sometimes they leave. And in between, they try to make sense of it all — which is often what brings them into the room with me in the first place.

What We Carry Inward

Something I see often is the quiet legacy of earlier relationships — not just romantic ones, but familial too. How we attach, how we love, how we argue, what we tolerate — it’s all shaped by what we experienced before we had language for it.

Someone who grew up walking on eggshells around conflict will often either avoid it completely or unknowingly recreate the same dynamics. It’s not a conscious decision, it’s wiring. The amygdala – the brain’s threat detector – doesn’t distinguish between emotional and physical safety. So the body reacts in the same way, even if the danger is long gone. This activates cortisol, the primary stress hormone, which puts the body into a heightened state of alert and prepares it for survival. Over time, chronic exposure to relational stress can rewire our emotional responses, making calm or secure relationships feel foreign or even threatening.

That’s why someone might stay in something misaligned — because even the misalignment is familiar. And the unfamiliar, even when healthy, can feel suspicious, or empty, or “too calm.”

But what’s fascinating, and sometimes frustrating, is how people struggle to trust what’s good for them. After years of conditioned responses — whether through childhood trauma, emotional neglect, or repeated dysfunctional relationships — it becomes harder to recognise safety when it’s presented. The body can mistake peace for a lack of emotion, or distance, or even boredom.

As much as we may say we want something different, a part of us often resists the shift. We crave stability, but we’ve confused comfort with stagnation. The key is finding a balance — acknowledging when we’re staying out of habit versus when we’re staying because we truly believe in the connection. Therapy often reveals those patterns, but it takes practice, patience, and self-awareness to undo them.

Technology and the Illusion of Choice

We live in a time of infinite options. Swipe culture has made connection feel simultaneously more available and more disposable. There’s this paradox of abundance: the more choices we have, the harder it is to choose. People ghost each other not always out of malice, but out of overwhelm or avoidance. We chase novelty but often long for depth.

Every new match, every like, every message — it triggers a small release of dopamine, the brain’s reward chemical. It’s the same system activated by gambling and other addictive behaviours. That anticipation of “what’s next” becomes intoxicating, even when it leads nowhere. We become conditioned to seek the high of newness while losing our tolerance for the mundane or the steady.

And then there’s comparison — a quiet but constant pressure. Relationship influencers, curated couple photos, “relationship goals” reels. These become invisible measuring sticks. People come in wondering if what they have is enough — not based on their own values, but on what they’ve absorbed online.

I’ve spoken with clients who have “discovered” new partners in apps or social circles, only to realise that the excitement fades, and they’re left asking: is this really what I wanted, or did I just like the idea of it? This paradox is everywhere. We’re all bombarded with images of perfect relationships, curated to make us feel like we’re missing out or not measuring up.

But here’s the thing: real connection isn’t as glamorous as a perfectly lit Instagram post. It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. It’s not always exciting, and it certainly isn’t perfect. The obsession with excitement can often cause us to ignore the quieter, more stable connections in our lives. When we prioritise novelty over depth, we might miss the very relationships that could bring us the most fulfillment.

Culture and the Complexities of Connection

There’s also a deeper, often unspoken layer that comes with cultural expectations. I’ve sat with clients torn between individual desires and collective values — between autonomy and obligation. In some cultures, marriage is not just a personal choice, it’s a family expectation. Separation isn’t just a private decision, it carries social weight, shame, or perceived failure.

Even language can limit expression. Some clients don’t have words in their native tongue for what they’re feeling. Others speak freely but struggle to find understanding in their families or communities. That loneliness — the kind that comes not just from disconnection, but from not being understood — runs deep.

It’s fascinating, the way culture can shape our relationship with intimacy. Some cultures place such a premium on loyalty and family unity that individual happiness feels secondary. In others, the pursuit of personal growth might push family members apart, as individual success is often prioritised over collective well-being.

What I see is a tug-of-war. Individuals wrestling with these invisible cultural expectations, wondering where to stand — in solidarity with the collective, or in freedom from it. This becomes even more complex when a person’s identity is shaped by multiple, sometimes conflicting, cultural influences. The immigrant experience, for instance, introduces a whole new layer — that feeling of being pulled in different directions, unable to fully fit into one space or the other.

As much as we want to be connected, sometimes that connection isn’t about just loving each other; it’s about learning to navigate the spaces between our own identity and what others expect of us.

Connection Is Still Possible

With all of this, it’s easy to feel disheartened. But what I’ve witnessed again and again is that genuine, lasting connection is still very possible. And it doesn’t look like perfection — it looks like two people willing to stay present, to be seen, and to grow both together and separately.

Sometimes the most meaningful relationships aren’t the ones that came easiest, but the ones where both people chose to do the work — to understand themselves, to take responsibility, to communicate honestly, to repair when things go wrong.

Therapy often isn’t about “fixing” a relationship. Sometimes it’s about unpacking what we believe we deserve. It’s about learning how to sit with our discomfort long enough to understand it. It’s about recognising the difference between real safety and familiar survival.

And here’s the biological truth: healing happens in connection. Oxytocin increases during healthy physical and emotional bonding. Serotonin rises when we feel secure, accepted, and supported. These aren’t just feelings — they’re chemical reinforcements that help regulate our mood, reduce anxiety, and anchor us in something bigger than fear.

The Importance of Self-Awareness in Relationships

I often find that the root of most relationship issues is not the other person, but how we see ourselves in relation to them. How often do we enter a relationship already carrying the weight of our past — the unresolved hurts, the unmet needs, and the silent expectations? We want to connect, but we don’t know who we are without the other person.

Self-awareness doesn’t mean self-criticism. It’s not about pointing out all our flaws or beating ourselves up for our mistakes. It’s about understanding how our beliefs, our insecurities, and our history shape the way we show up in relationships. When we lack self-awareness, we’re more likely to project our fears or needs onto others, expecting them to fill gaps we haven’t addressed ourselves.

But when we know ourselves — when we take the time to reflect, to pause, to process — we show up more fully for others. We give ourselves the gift of understanding, and in turn, we offer that understanding to the relationships we hold dear. Connection starts with self-compassion.

Building Healthy Boundaries

Often, in our search for connection, we forget one crucial thing: boundaries. It sounds counterintuitive, right? How can boundaries help us connect? But boundaries create the space for true intimacy. Without them, we may become enmeshed in unhealthy dynamics, losing ourselves in the process.

Healthy boundaries mean knowing what we will tolerate, what we won’t, and how to communicate that clearly. They give us the freedom to be who we truly are, and they give others the opportunity to show up as their authentic selves as well. Boundaries aren’t walls — they’re just clear lines that say, “This is where I end and you begin.”

Without boundaries, relationships can feel suffocating or out of balance. The key is being able to voice your needs while also respecting others’ needs. It’s about giving, but also receiving. And it’s about ensuring both people feel safe and respected in the space they share together.

Reflections of Wisdom

There’s no formula for love. No guaranteed blueprint for lasting connection. But there are patterns. There are habits. And there is hope.

The clients I see, whether they stay or go, are doing some of the bravest work — examining what they’ve inherited, choosing what they want to carry forward, and learning to trust themselves along the way.

What I’ve learned — both professionally and personally — is that relationships ask us to be known. And being known is vulnerable. But in that vulnerability, there’s also possibility.

Possibility for something more honest. More mutual. More alive.

And that’s worth holding space for.

ThriveAlly