The Person You're Fighting May Not Be the Person You're Reacting To

Dear Couple, Not long ago, I was sitting with a couple who had been married for several years. They had reached a point where even small conversations seemed to turn into arguments.

The husband told me, "I don't understand it. I'll ask a simple question, and somehow it turns into a fight."

His wife nodded, but she saw it very differently.

She said, "It never feels like a simple question."

They were both telling the truth.

That moment has stayed with me because it captures something I see over and over again. Two people can experience the very same conversation and walk away with completely different stories about what happened.

One person thinks they were asking for clarification.

The other hears criticism.

One believes they were trying to solve a problem.

The other feels dismissed.

One walks away thinking, "I was only trying to help."

The other walks away thinking, "I don't think you even hear me anymore."

It's tempting to conclude that one person must be right and the other must be wrong.

I've found that relationships are rarely that simple.

Over the years, I've become less interested in asking, "Who started it?" and much more interested in asking, "What made this moment feel so significant?"

Sometimes the answer has very little to do with what was just said.

Years ago, before I became a therapist, I assumed we responded to the present. If someone said something hurtful, we reacted to what they said. If someone forgot something important, we reacted to what they forgot.

Now I'm not so sure.

I think we often respond to the meaning we've attached to those moments over the course of our lives.

Imagine a husband who grew up in a home where every mistake was met with harsh criticism. He learns, without realizing it, that mistakes are dangerous. Years later, his wife asks, "Did you remember to call the plumber?"

She may simply be asking a question.

He hears something else entirely.

"You've failed again."

Or imagine a wife who spent much of her childhood wondering whether the important people in her life would really be there when she needed them. Her husband gets caught up at work and forgets to text that he'll be home late.

He sees a busy afternoon.

She experiences something much older.

"Maybe I'm not that important after all."

Neither of them wakes up that morning intending to replay old experiences.

Life just has a way of touching places inside us that we didn't realize were still tender.

That's one of the reasons I encourage couples to become curious about each other's history instead of assuming they already know it.

Most of us know the major events in our spouse's life. We know where they grew up, where they went to school, and perhaps a few stories about their family.

But there are deeper questions that often go unexplored.

What made you feel safe as a child?

What made you feel alone?

What happened when you made a mistake?

How did people express love in your home?

What happened when someone was angry?

Those experiences don't disappear simply because we become adults.

They become part of the lens through which we interpret the people we love.

I think that's why compassion becomes so important in marriage.

Compassion doesn't mean excusing hurtful behavior.

It means remembering that the person sitting across from you has lived an entire life before they ever met you.

They carry joys you may never fully understand.

They also carry disappointments, fears, and losses that still influence how they see the world.

The longer I work with couples, the more convinced I become that every reaction has a history.

Not every history explains every behavior.

We are still responsible for how we treat one another.

But understanding the history often changes the conversation.

Instead of asking, "Why are you making such a big deal out of this?" we begin asking, "Help me understand what this brings up for you."

That question has saved more conversations than most communication techniques ever will.

Because people soften when they feel understood.

Not judged.

Not analyzed.

Understood.

So the next time an argument begins, I'd like you to consider one possibility.

The person standing in front of you is your spouse.

But the hurt they're reacting from may have begun long before they ever met you.

If that's true, then perhaps the goal isn't simply to win the argument.

Perhaps it's to understand the story that made the argument feel so important in the first place.

I've found that's where empathy grows.

And empathy has a remarkable way of changing the direction of a marriage.

Always in your corner, Sam