When Love Feels Scarce: How Anxious Attachment Chases Closeness Away

By Dan Oakes, MEd, LPC, CSAT, Arizona Family Institute

You finally have the connection you wanted. A good evening. Laughter. Then your partner heads to bed early, and something in your chest tightens. You text. You ask if everything is okay. You ask again. The harder you reach, the farther they drift. If you've ever wondered why anxious attachment pushes away the love you want most, let me tell you about a boy at a crowded dinner table.

Seventh of nine

I was the seventh of nine children. If you've never lived in a family that size, here is what you need to know. The rolls went fast. Conversations went faster. By the time I thought of something funny to say, three older siblings had already said it louder. My parents loved us. They also had nine of us. Attention came in short supply, so I learned to go get it.

That skill followed me into marriage. Early on, I would come home from a long day and follow my wife from the kitchen to the laundry room to the garage. Are we good? Are you ok? You seem quiet, are you mad at me? What are you thinking? She would say, "I'm thinking about the laundry, Danny." I did not believe her. Nobody thinks about laundry that hard.

One night she went to take a bath, and I sat on the floor outside the bathroom door so we could keep talking. I thought this was romantic. She did not. She said, gently, "Danny, I love you. I need twenty minutes where nobody needs me."

I remember the silence after. I felt seven years old again, too slow for the rolls.

I understand it differently now. My reaching came from a real need. We are built for closeness. But I was asking her to fill a hunger older than our marriage. No spouse can feed a boy who spent years waiting his turn. When I chased, she felt the weight of it and stepped back to breathe. Then I chased harder. We both ended up lonely.

Turning toward the younger self

The change came when I stopped aiming all of that need at her and started tending it myself first. This is the practice I use and teach.

When the urge to chase rises, stop. Take two slow breaths. Put a hand on your chest and notice what your body is doing. Tight throat. Heat in the face. A pull in the stomach. Name it without fixing it.

Then ask a simple question. How old does this feel? For me, the answer is usually seven. I picture that boy at the table, waiting, hoping someone will turn and look at him. And I turn and look at him. I tell him, I see you. You are not forgotten. You don't have to fight for a seat here.

Prayer is part of this for me. Some nights I picture the Savior sitting beside that boy, in no hurry, with plenty of time for him. Something in me settles.

Only after that do I go find my wife. I still reach. Reaching is healthy. Now it sounds like, "Hey, I'm feeling a little lonely tonight. Can we sit together for ten minutes?" One clear ask instead of five anxious ones. She says yes almost every time. She wanted me all along, the settled version she could lean toward.

If you chase

Maybe you recognize yourself in the text you sent three times, or the doorway you stood in. Nothing is wrong with you. Some part of you learned early that love goes to whoever reaches hardest. That part deserves your compassion before you correct it.

Sit with the younger you this week. Once a day, even when nothing is wrong. Breathe. Ask how old the feeling is. Offer what you needed then. And if you want company while you learn, our therapists at Arizona Family Institute in Mesa would be glad to sit with you.