There was a time when constant contact felt like connection.

My partner at the time would message me, voice note me, and FaceTime me multiple times a day — often before we were even in what I believed was a committed relationship. At the time, I didn’t mind it. If anything, I saw it as interest. Attention. Affection.

I thought it meant I mattered.

I thought it meant love.

But over time, what felt like connection started to feel like pressure.

Some days I found myself thinking, I have nothing new to say.

The conversations stopped feeling natural. They became expected. Routine. Constant.

There was always another message. Another call. Another check-in.

And without realising it, I got used to always being available.

At the time, I didn’t understand what that was doing to me.

I didn’t realise that constant access to me was slowly training my nervous system to associate closeness with pressure.

When the relationship ended, I noticed something had changed.

Not just in how I loved — but in how I responded to people altogether.

When I met new people after that, I became colder with communication.

I started telling people early on that I didn’t want constant contact.

I didn’t want good morning texts.

I didn’t need goodnight texts.

I didn’t want endless messages throughout the day.

And I know how that probably looked.

Detached.

Unavailable.

Maybe uninterested.

But the truth is, it wasn’t about not caring.

It was about self-protection.

What I understand now is that somewhere in that relationship, I became avoidant.

More specifically, dismissive-avoidant.

Not because I don’t want connection.

But because I now need distance to feel safe.

That’s the hardest part to explain.

Because inside, it doesn’t feel cold.

It feels conflicted.

I can like someone.

I can miss someone.

I can enjoy their company.

But if I feel too much access is expected, I start pulling back.

A message can feel like pressure.

A call can feel like obligation.

Even healthy communication can sometimes feel heavy.

Not because the person is doing anything wrong.

But because my body remembers what constant emotional availability once cost me.

Now, silence feels peaceful.

Space feels safe.

Distance feels like breathing room.

I can go a couple of days without contact and feel completely fine.

And I know for some people, that can feel strange.

But for me, it feels like freedom.

That’s the contradiction of dismissive avoidance.

You can want love while fearing what closeness might take from you.

You can care deeply and still keep people at arm’s length.

You can miss someone and still not reach out.

It’s not about not feeling.

It’s about having learned to survive by containing your feelings.

And that’s what trauma does.

It changes your attachment.

It changes your boundaries.

It changes the way you connect.

Healing has taught me that there’s a difference between healthy closeness and emotional engulfment.

Between communication and constant access.

Between love and pressure.

That understanding has shaped not only my recovery, but also my writing.

In The Narcissist Handbook: Recognise the Narcissist: The Lies, Love Bombing, and Manipulation That Break You, I explore how toxic relationship dynamics condition us to lose ourselves.

In A Fine Line Between Love and Hate, I write about the confusion that exists when love and pain become impossible to separate.

And in They Became The Chapter. You Became The Author: Every Ending Leaves a Silence. This is Where Healing Begins., I focus on what it really takes to rebuild yourself after everything changes.

Because healing isn’t just about moving on.

Sometimes it’s about understanding who you became while surviving.