writing

When Independence Becomes a Defence

by Julie Githiri

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“I can manage on my own.”

“I don’t need to rely on a man for my emotional well-being.”

There is something deeply empowering about being able to say these things.

And yet, I wonder what happens when independence becomes more than a strength. What happens when it becomes a defence?

Typically, when we think about independence, particularly in women, we picture a familiar stereotype: a well-educated woman, single or divorced, with or without children, who has learned to navigate life largely on her own.

She may be straddling the demands of working life, managing a home, making time, however limited for ageing parents, building a career, pursuing further education, maintaining her health and wellbeing, and creating the comforts she wants for herself: perhaps even the increasingly popular promise of a “soft life.”

Her bedside drawer might contain the latest gadgets to ensure her libido is attended to regularly. She has friends. She has a career. She has interests. She travels. She can assemble furniture, change a tyre, make decisions, manage her finances and, when necessary, comfort herself.

She is capable.

She is self-sufficient.

She is, in many ways, exactly the woman we have encouraged her to become.

So why might this woman struggle to be partnered?

Is independence celebrated or is it, sometimes, quietly penalised?

When “I Don’t Need You” Becomes “I Can’t Need You”

There is an important distinction between not needing someone to survive and being unable to need someone emotionally.

Healthy independence says:

“I can take care of myself, and I can also allow you to take care of me sometimes.”

Defensive independence says:

“I can take care of myself, so I don’t need you to take care of me.”

The difference may sound subtle, but emotionally it is enormous.

The independent woman may have learned, through experience, that relying on others can be disappointing. Perhaps people have let her down. Perhaps she has spent years being the dependable one the person everyone calls when there is a crisis, the one who holds things together.

Eventually, competence becomes armour.

She stops asking.

She stops expecting.

She stops needing.

And because she has become very good at doing everything herself, she may no longer know how to let someone into the parts of her life where she is vulnerable.

The Paradox of Independence

There is a curious paradox here.

We tell women: Be strong. Don’t settle. Don’t depend on a man. Build your own life. Know your worth.

And I agree.

But perhaps we have confused self-sufficiency with emotional freedom.

You can be financially independent and emotionally defended.

You can be fiercely capable and deeply lonely.

You can have an extraordinarily full life and still struggle to make space for another person within it.

The question isn’t whether a woman can manage without a partner.

Of course she can.

The more interesting question is:

Can she make room for a partner without experiencing that need as weakness?

The Fear Beneath the Strength

Sometimes independence protects us from the vulnerability of needing another person.

Because needing someone gives them the possibility of disappointing us.

It means allowing someone to matter.

It means surrendering some control.

It means saying, “I can’t do this alone,” or “I need you,” or simply, “I missed you.”

For someone who has spent years proving that she can cope, those words can feel surprisingly exposing.

And perhaps this is where independence becomes a defence.

Not because the woman doesn’t want intimacy.

But because intimacy requires something independence has taught her to avoid:

dependence.

Not complete dependence. Not losing herself. But the healthy, mutual dependence that allows two adults to lean on one another without either person disappearing.

Partnership Is Not Rescue

None of this means that an independent woman should suddenly become dependent on a man.

Quite the opposite.

A healthy partnership isn’t about being rescued.

It is about being accompanied.

There is a profound difference between:

“I need you because I cannot cope without you,”

and:

“I don’t need you to survive, but I want you in my life. I want to share things with you. I want to be known by you. I want to be able to lean on you sometimes.”

Perhaps that is the balance many of us are looking for.

Not independence or intimacy.

But independence within intimacy.

So, Is Independence Penalised?

Perhaps sometimes it is.

There are certainly social expectations around gender, partnership and what women “should” need from men.

But I think there is another question worth asking.

Are some of us so determined never to need anyone that we inadvertently make it difficult for anyone to become truly close to us?

Because there is a difference between having strong boundaries and having impenetrable walls.

Boundaries say:

“This is who I am, and this is how I expect to be treated.”

Walls say:

“You cannot get close enough to hurt me.”

The first protects our dignity.

The second may protect our wounds.

Perhaps the goal isn’t to become less independent.

Perhaps it is to become secure enough in our independence to allow ourselves to need someone without losing ourselves.

To say:

“I can manage on my own.”

And, at the same time:

“I don’t always want to.”

Because perhaps the most powerful form of independence is not needing to prove that you can do everything alone.

It is knowing that you can and choosing to let someone stand beside you anyway.

When is Enough, Enough?

by Julie Githiri

When financial responsibility is withheld.

When emotional affection is withdrawn.

When there is physical abuse.

When sex becomes coercive rather than consensual.

When you are repeatedly ignored, dismissed or made to feel as though your needs don’t matter.

The red flags can be many, and sometimes they are so subtle that they are difficult to name.

As a psychotherapist, I have learned that relationship distress doesn’t always arrive dramatically. Sometimes it arrives quietly.

It can look like two people living in the same house but living completely separate emotional lives.

It can be lying next to someone at night and feeling profoundly alone.

It can be speaking and knowing you are not being heard.

It can be reaching for affection and repeatedly being met with indifference.

It can be becoming so accustomed to emotional distance that you eventually stop asking for closeness altogether.

And this raises a difficult question:

When is enough, enough?

At the beginning, perhaps love and commitment were firmly on the agenda.

There were plans, promises, shared dreams and an expectation that you were building a life together.

Then, somewhere along the way, something changed.

Perhaps the love faded.

Perhaps respect disappeared quietly, long before either person acknowledged it.

Perhaps responsibility replaced affection. Transparency was replaced by secrecy. Partnership became obligation.

The relationship may still look intact from the outside.

The house is still there.

The family is still there.

The photographs are still on the wall.

But emotionally, something has died.

And what do couples do at this point?

Do we simply “suck it up”?

After all, isn’t that what marriage is sometimes portrayed as?

“This is your lot.”

“Love it or lump it.”

“You made your bed, now lie in it.”

There are countless colloquialisms designed to make endurance sound noble.

And endurance can be noble.

Relationships require compromise. They require forgiveness, patience, difficult conversations and the willingness to stay through seasons that aren’t particularly easy.

But there is a difference between working through difficulty and tolerating harm.

That distinction matters.

When we hear the word abuse, we often imagine something visible: physical violence, shouting, intimidation.

But harm within relationships can be much quieter.

There can be emotional neglect.

There can be persistent criticism, humiliation or dismissal.

There can be financial control.

There can be sexual coercion.

There can be deliberate withdrawal of affection used as punishment.

There can be a partner who is physically present but emotionally absent.

And then there is loneliness.

One of the most painful experiences I encounter in therapeutic work is the stories of loneliness while being married.

There is something uniquely painful about feeling alone while sitting beside the person who is supposed to know you best.

You may have someone to come home to, yet nobody to talk to.

Someone beside you in bed, yet no intimacy.

Someone who knows your routines yet seems no longer interested in knowing you.

Loneliness within a relationship can be particularly confusing because, from the outside, you are not alone.

But emotionally, you are.

And over time, this can change the way a person sees themselves.

They may begin to question whether their needs are reasonable.

They may stop asking for affection.

They may minimise their unhappiness.

They may tell themselves that this is simply what long-term relationships become.

Eventually, they may stop expecting anything at all.

As a psychotherapist, I often become interested in the point at which a person stops asking, “Is this relationship good for me?”

and begins asking only,

“How can I make this relationship work?”

That shift can be significant.

Because sometimes the desire to preserve the relationship becomes so powerful that the person begins disappearing inside it.

They become smaller.

Quieter.

More accommodating.

They learn what not to say.

They learn when not to ask.

They learn how to manage the other person’s moods.

And eventually, they may no longer recognise the person they have become.

That is when endurance can become self-abandonment.

Choosing yourself does not necessarily mean leaving immediately.

Sometimes it begins with acknowledging what is actually happening.

It means naming the behaviour rather than minimising it.

It means allowing yourself to say:

“This isn’t working for me anymore.”

“I am lonely.”

“I don’t feel respected.”

“I don’t feel safe.”

“I don’t want this kind of sexual relationship.”

“I have spent years trying to make this work, and I am no longer willing to lose myself in the process.”

And when there is abuse, particularly physical or sexual violence, choosing yourself may mean prioritising safety and seeking appropriate professional and practical support.

Because abuse is not simply a difficult season in a marriage.

It is not a communication problem that can always be solved by trying harder.

And it should never be romanticised as something a partner simply needs to endure.

This is perhaps the hardest part.

You can still love someone and know that the relationship is no longer healthy for you.

You can remember the person they once were and still acknowledge who they are now.

You can have shared history, children, memories, a home, a community and years of investment and still arrive at the painful realisation that continuing in the same way is costing you too much.

Leaving does not necessarily mean that the love was false.

Sometimes it means that love alone is no longer enough to sustain the relationship.

There may not be one universal moment when everyone knows they have had enough.

For some, it is a single devastating event.

For others, it is the accumulation of hundreds of small moments.

The conversation they stopped having.

The affection they stopped receiving.

The apologies that became meaningless.

The boundaries that were repeatedly crossed.

The nights they felt alone beside someone.

The gradual disappearance of themselves.

And perhaps this is the question we should be asking:

At what point does staying require you to abandon too much of yourself?

Marriage can ask us to compromise.

Love can ask us to grow.

Life can ask us to endure difficult seasons.

But none of these should require us to surrender our dignity, our bodily autonomy, our safety or our sense of self.

Perhaps choosing yourself isn’t selfish.

Perhaps sometimes, it is the most honest decision you can make.

Because enough is enough when the cost of staying becomes the loss of who you are.

Warmly

Jules

The Attraction of Emotional Unavailability

by Julie Githiri

“Why do I keep choosing emotionally unavailable people?”

As a Psychotherapist, it’s one of the questions I’m asked most often and if I truly had the definitive answer, it would probably be worth a million pounds.

The assumption behind the question is that emotional unavailability belongs to the other person. That they are the problem to be solved, the pattern to be broken, the trait to be avoided next time.

But what if the question is incomplete?

What if, in choosing someone emotionally unavailable, we are also revealing something about our own emotional availability?

Emotionally unavailable people are often deeply attractive. They keep us guessing. That pursuer-retreater dance can be incredibly seductive.

Not because they are unavailable, but because they awaken something within us that feels strangely familiar. They can appear charismatic, independent, exciting, unpredictable, and emotionally intense in fleeting moments. We experience the thrill of connection, followed by the ache of distance.

Sometimes we mistake inconsistency for chemistry.

Sometimes we mistake longing for love.

Sometimes we spend so much energy trying to be chosen that we never stop to ask whether the relationship itself is meeting our emotional needs.

Perhaps the pursuit feels safer than the possibility of being fully loved.

Now let me introduce a slight curveball…

What if you are emotionally unavailable too?

Not in the obvious way.

Emotional unavailability can be surprisingly subtle.

It can look like choosing people who cannot fully commit.

It can look like always having one foot outside the relationship.

It can look like needing certainty before allowing yourself to be truly vulnerable.

It can look like intellectualising your emotions instead of simply feeling them.

It can look like protecting yourself so well that no one ever truly gets close enough to hurt you.

We should also consider that not everyone who longs for love is emotionally available to receive it.

Emotional unavailability is rarely about not caring.

More often, it is protection.

It may be the remnants of childhood experiences where closeness felt unsafe. It may follow betrayal, grief, loss, divorce, or repeated relational disappointment. Sometimes it reflects a fear of dependence. Sometimes it is the quiet belief that if you never give someone all of yourself, they can never be in a position to completely break you.

We all develop ways of protecting our hearts.

Some of those protections eventually become prisons.

Maybe emotionally unavailable people are not difficult to love.

Maybe they are frightened of what love asks of them.

The greatest challenge, then, is not simply finding someone who is emotionally available.

It is becoming emotionally available ourselves.

To risk being known.

To tolerate uncertainty.

To remain present when intimacy feels uncomfortable.

To accept that love cannot exist without vulnerability.

Perhaps the question was never, “Why do I keep choosing emotionally unavailable people?”

Perhaps the real question is, “Can I become curious enough to understand that my patterns are not about assigning blame, but about discovering where they began and finding the courage to choose differently?”

Warmly

Jules

The Myth of Closure

by Julie Githiri

We have come to believe that closure is an essential part of the end of a relationship. That without it, we are left with unanswered questions, limited understanding, and a missed opportunity to reflect, learn, and grow. We tell ourselves that if only we could have one final conversation, one honest explanation, one moment of mutual understanding, then perhaps our hearts could finally rest.

But is that really true?

Must closure come from another person, or is it something we create for ourselves?

Throughout our lives, most of us will experience the ending of several significant relationships. Some endings will be our choice; others will be thrust upon us without warning or consent. Whether we are the one who leaves or the one left behind, every ending carries some degree of loss. It asks us to grieve not only the person but also the future we imagined with them.

Perhaps the real question isn’t whether closure exists, but how we find peace when it doesn’t.

Can healing still occur without the conversation we long for? Can understanding emerge without an explanation? Can forgiveness exist without an apology?

Is the person who ends a relationship always the villain, or simply the one who recognised that something had changed? Can two people arrive at the same conclusion together, or are truly mutual endings far rarer than we would like to believe?

And how do we know when we have recovered? Is there a timeline for healing, or is it something quieter? Perhaps recovery isn’t the absence of sadness but the moment when thoughts of them no longer occupy every corner of your day. When their name no longer tightens your chest. When you can remember the relationship without wishing to rewrite its ending.

Maybe closure has been misunderstood all along.

Perhaps it isn’t a conversation. Perhaps it isn’t an apology, an explanation, or even a final goodbye.

Perhaps closure is the quiet moment when the heart finally realises it has survived.

When it discovers that it can breathe again.

Warmly

Jules

The Question Beneath the Question

by Julie Githiri

I was recently sitting with a dear friend, discussing the existence of big love, great love.

He spoke about it with such passion that I could almost feel it myself. The memory of it left his heart fluttering, his skin tingling, goosebumps rising on his arms. His breath became deeper, more deliberate, as though the very act of remembering brought him back into its presence.

Listening to him describe an experience that seemed to transcend all rational thought, I found myself wondering whether this is the love we are all searching for. The kind of love where oxytocin checks in and logic quietly leaves the chat. The kind that rearranges your inner landscape without permission.

But is that what makes a love great?

Is it the intensity of feeling? The all-consuming desire? The inability to think clearly in the presence of another?

Or is it something altogether different?

Perhaps great love is not simply about being known, but about being felt. Not only in the physical sense, but emotionally. A meeting of minds, hearts, histories and hopes. A place where two people recognise something familiar in one another and choose to stay curious about what they find.

For centuries we have attempted to define love. The Greeks gave us Eros, the passionate and erotic; Agape, the selfless and unconditional; Ludus, the playful and flirtatious; Pragma, the enduring love that grows through commitment and shared experience.

Yet perhaps, like life itself, love refuses to remain fixed.

Love evolves.

The intoxicating rush of Eros may soften into the steady reassurance of Pragma. Playfulness may deepen into devotion. Desire may ebb and flow, whilst intimacy grows roots beneath it. The love we experience at twenty is rarely the same love we seek at fifty.

And perhaps that is the question worth asking.

Is great love the one that takes our breath away?

Or is it the one that teaches us how to breathe more deeply?

When someone enters my consulting room, more often than not, this is the question hiding beneath the question.

Not “How do I fix my relationship?” or “Why did they leave?” or even “Do they love me?”

The question is simpler, and infinitely more complex:

Am I loved?

If our eyes are the windows to the soul, and the soul is the keeper of the heart, then surely the health of that heart matters. Not simply the organ beating faithfully within our chest, but the emotional heart, the one that longs, grieves, hopes, and connects.

Surely a heart that feels at peace, seen, and secure stands a better chance of flourishing?

It sounds like simple mathematics.

Yet human beings have never been particularly rational when it comes to love.

Interestingly, this same question follows me beyond the consulting room. Whether professionally or socially, conversations about love seem to emerge with remarkable ease. Friends, strangers, clients all circling the same curiosity. I appear to have a knack for creating spaces where such conversations unfold.

And perhaps that is because love sits at the centre of so much of what it means to be human.

Across centuries and cultures, we have been captivated by it.

Romeo and Juliet became the enduring symbol of passionate, tragic devotion. Emperor Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal in memory of Mumtaz Mahal, creating one of the world’s greatest monuments to love and loss. Even our sacred texts are filled with stories of longing, desire, betrayal, sacrifice, and devotion. Samson and Delilah remind us that love can both strengthen and deceive.

Songs have been written about it.
Poems have worshipped it.
Artists have painted it.
Writers have chased it across generations.

Love has inspired wars, reconciliations, migrations, and revolutions of the heart.

In many ways, love may well be the greatest currency on the planet.

Not because it can be bought or sold, but because nearly every human decision is influenced by our pursuit of it, our experience of it, or our recovery from its absence.

Which brings me back to the original question.

Is love what makes the world go round?

Or is it the hope of being loved that keeps us moving?

Warmly 

Jules