Recently, I built a personal connection with someone I’ll call K. Over the course of about a month, we spent time getting to know one another. K was honest and sweet-hearted, and even though he had his walls, he never masked who he was. We shared many core values, life principles, and mutual interests that made it easy to spend time together.
Things seemed to be going well—well, to an extent. Then came a disagreement, one that turned into an event neither of us could recover from.
Without diving too deeply into the details, here’s what I’ve taken away from this experience.
I am, by nature, an inquisitive person. I love to sit with people and ask personal questions. It’s part of who I am, and it helps me connect with others. One day, I asked K a question he didn’t wish to answer. That was completely fine—he had no obligation to answer, and I respected that fully. But I was curious about why he didn’t want to answer. In hindsight, I see that my curiosity touched a sensitive spot for K, one that triggered him.
K stood his ground and expressed his boundary, which was commendable. But the moment became more complicated because I chose that time to bring up something I had been feeling. I had noticed that K would often cut off certain conversations or questions abruptly if they didn’t align with how he wanted the energy of the moment to be. While I understood this wasn’t personal, I found myself hesitating more and more about what I could say or ask. I wanted to share this observation, but looking back, I realise that the timing—when he was already triggered—was not ideal.
From K’s perspective, it felt like I was giving him consequences for holding his boundary, even though that wasn’t my intention. I tried to explain my genuineness, but at that point, it didn’t matter.
I felt a heavy sadness—not just for the loss of the connection, but for the pain we both experienced in that moment. I could see how deeply K was affected, and I recognised how our perspectives, shaped by our own wounds and triggers, made it difficult to meet each other where we were.
What a shame, though. What a shame that K chose to end it there, to cut and be done after one moment, rather than seeing it as an opportunity to learn something about ourselves through the perspective of another. Of course, I absolutely understand his perspective, especially when the exact action I took was what triggered him. It’s a response I’ve come to recognise and empathise with.
This experience reminded me of my time as a live chatting streamer on Twitch, where I hosted podcasts about trauma. It became clear to me how powerful triggers are and how easily they can shape our responses. I learned that people often view triggers as immediate threats, reacting with defensiveness or avoidance to protect themselves. But I also learned that a trigger isn’t always a threat.
During those streams, I created a command for my audience:
“Some subjects may be triggering for the audience depending on your life circumstances. Please know that a trigger is not a threat but an invitation to the healing process. We make different life choices and are all at different stages in life. Do respect your boundaries and PUT YOUR SAFETY FIRST. IF YOU FIND ANY SUBJECT TRIGGERING, I respectfully suggest that you mute or return to the stream after some time to protect yourself.”
This message reflected something I’ve come to deeply understand: If a trigger makes you feel unsafe, you absolutely need to remove yourself and prioritise your well-being. But if you’re in a safe environment, a trigger can be something else entirely. It can be an opportunity to sit with discomfort and explore its origins.
I’ve come to ask myself different kinds of questions when I’m triggered:
- What am I trying to control right now?
- What would happen if I stopped trying to control this and just stayed with the feeling?
- Am I reacting to this person, or am I reacting to what this moment reminds me of?
Sitting with these questions isn’t easy. It’s uncomfortable, sometimes even painful. But it’s also where growth happens. I’ve learned that trying to suppress or avoid triggers only gives them more power, allowing them to chase you. But facing them, when you’re ready, creates space to detach from the suffering they represent.
In fact, I headbutted with Shama during the first few years of our marriage—it was unavoidable. To clarify, the factors between K and I were not similar to the dynamics between Shama and me. Different people, different triggers, and different ways of handling them. But through time, patience, and consistent work with Shama, we’ve learned to detach our wounds from the projections they bring.
Of course, we were both acutely aware of the discomfort we were sitting in during those early conflicts. Shama often shut down in response, which in turn triggered me. Early in those moments, I felt the urge to withdraw completely, to check out immediately. Looking back now, I can see how that was a trigger response, one that lacked rationality and clarity about what I truly wanted in that moment.
What we both came to understand, however, was that those moments of conflict didn’t define the rest of our relationship. They didn’t overshadow the mutual core values we shared or the love we had for one another. That love and alignment became our motivation. Despite the discomfort and the instinct to walk away, we always came back the next day, ready to sit down and table the issues. Over time, this commitment to returning to the conversation allowed us to work through those moments, not just for the sake of resolution, but as a way of strengthening our understanding of each other. In doing so, we’ve reached a place where we can see the person in front of us, rather than only seeing the pain they evoke.
I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness that K and I didn’t have the opportunity to grow in that way together, but I also respect his choice. And yet, this experience was still a great one—one worth walking away from with good reflections and valuable lessons.
One of those lessons is that I was so caught up in my own innocence and genuineness during the disagreement that I wish I had been able to show up for K a little more in the moment. Rather than focusing on explaining myself, I could have leaned into understanding his perspective better, even amidst the tension. That’s something I’ll carry with me: the importance of pausing my own defensiveness and seeking to hold space for the other person first.
Another lesson is about perspective itself. This experience reminded me of how powerful triggers can be. They shape not only our reactions but also our perceptions of others. When we live through the lens of our wounds, it can feel like every action, word, or behaviour from another person is a direct reflection of our deepest fears or pain. It’s not that K’s feelings weren’t valid—they absolutely were. But the inability to consider that someone else’s actions might stem from a different reality, one outside the boundaries of our own hurt, can isolate us further.
There are no definitive actions or behaviours that are experienced the same way by everyone. The same qualities in someone that one person admires and loves could be the exact things another finds challenging or triggering. We each see the world through the lens of our own experiences, and those experiences shape the unique perspectives we bring to relationships.
At the end of the day, after all the reflection and self-awareness, I’ve come to see that who you are as a person—the things you love about yourself, the way you communicate, your essence—may not always align with another person’s needs or comfort. If those qualities happen to be triggering for someone, it’s not a reflection of you or your worth. It simply means the connection isn’t compatible.
That realisation feels liberating. It’s not about fixing or changing yourself to fit someone else’s lens. It’s about honouring who you are and allowing others to honour who they are, even if that means parting ways.
This experience with K left me with a heavy heart, but also with clarity. I respect his ability to hold his boundaries, even as I hold space for the pain that shaped his perspective. While we weren’t able to bridge the gap between our realities, I walk away with gratitude for the lessons I’ve gained—not just about others but about myself.
It’s a reminder that connections, no matter how brief, have the potential to teach us something profound if we’re open to it. Sometimes, the people we encounter reflect back to us the areas where we still have room to grow. Other times, they show us the value of what we already possess—our ability to self-reflect, to communicate, to hold space for another.
What I take from this is not just an understanding of my own tendencies and triggers, but a deeper appreciation for the uniqueness of each relationship. Not every connection is meant to last, but every connection has the power to shape us if we allow it.
Ultimately, I see this as an invitation to approach future relationships with the same openness, but also with greater mindfulness. To recognise the beauty of different perspectives, even when they don’t align. And to remember that growth doesn’t always come from holding on—it often comes from letting go.
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