Loneliness in a relationship is a unique kind of ache. It’s not about being physically apart; it’s about feeling unseen, even when you’re sitting right next to the person you love. It’s the slow, quiet realisation that something stands between you—not a lack of love but walls built from fear, wounds, and misunderstandings.
These walls divide a relationship into two perspectives. On one side is the person who builds the walls, trying to protect themselves from past pain. On the other is the person left on the outside, longing to be seen but finding themselves shut out.
When these two dynamics collide, they create a painful disconnection. Let’s step into both sides of this divide.
The One Behind the Wall
When we carry wounds that we haven’t healed, it’s easy to let fear take the lead. We become consumed by what we don’t want to experience again—betrayal, rejection, abandonment—and in trying to shield ourselves, we build walls.
Imagine someone who has been cheated on in the past. The betrayal was devastating, leaving scars that still ache. In a new relationship, fear becomes their compass. They scrutinise their partner’s every move, interpreting innocent actions through the lens of suspicion. They hold back their trust, convinced that vigilance will prevent history from repeating itself.
But fear, while protective, is also blinding. It narrows our view to the outcome we want to avoid, while keeping us from understanding how we got there in the first place. When someone focuses only on the fact that they were cheated on, they miss the chance to reflect on what led to it. They miss the how.
What patterns did the relationship follow? What needs went unmet? Were there unspoken wounds, on either side, that created a rift?
Without reflection, fear becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Instead of understanding the dynamics of what happened, they cling to assumptions: I must protect myself from betrayal at all costs. Trusting too much means being hurt again. And so, their walls grow higher.
Here’s the paradox: The walls meant to protect them begin to create distance. The scrutiny they impose, the trust they withhold—these actions send a message to their partner that they aren’t trusted, even if they’ve done nothing wrong. In trying so hard to avoid betrayal, they create the disconnection that pushes their partner away.
The One Left Unseen
On the other side of the wall is someone who just wants to be seen. But when their partner’s attention is consumed by guarding themselves against the past, the person standing right in front of them fades into the background.
Imagine being in a relationship with someone who was cheated on before. You find yourself constantly trying to prove your loyalty, yet your partner’s focus isn’t on who you are—it’s on their fear of who you might become. Every word, every action is filtered through their lens of suspicion. No matter what you do, you feel like you’re being measured against a ghost from their past.
Loneliness in this dynamic isn’t about a lack of love. It’s about the absence of presence. You start to wonder: Do they even see me, or just the shadow of their fear? Am I a partner, or a placeholder for their pain?
This feeling of invisibility chips away at connection. Over time, you might begin to withdraw—not out of anger, but out of exhaustion. And as you pull back, the distance only seems to confirm your partner’s fears. The walls grow thicker, and the loneliness deepens.
Cheating and Reflection
I used ‘cheating’ as an example here, but of course, betrayal and wounds that lead to difficulty in trusting can come from many places: a rough childhood, being abandoned by a loved one, or being betrayed by someone they deeply entrusted with.
However, in my (perhaps) unpopular opinion, cheating has become the singular act we often treat as a one-way street, where no room for reflection exists for the other person in the relationship. The cause of the breakup is reduced to the phrase: They cheated. That’s it, end of story.
This isn’t to condone or justify someone’s decision to cheat. Cheating is a choice—a way of avoiding difficult emotions or conversations. But focusing solely on the act of cheating can often prevent deeper reflection. What dynamics existed before the betrayal? What patterns or unmet needs might have contributed to the distance between the two people?
Again, this isn’t about placing blame on the person who was cheated on—it’s about understanding that relationships are rarely simple. When we avoid asking these questions, we risk missing the opportunity for growth. The wound of betrayal becomes a defining feature of the future rather than a lesson that can illuminate patterns, choices, and truths about ourselves and the relationships we build.
I once found myself at the end of a relationship where a lot of resentment was poured onto me by my previous partner. It came as a huge shock because there had been no interaction in the relationship that helped me understand his resentment. The venom in his words was palpable, fuelled by anger, but his reasons didn’t make sense at the time.
I discovered messages between my ex-partner and another woman indicating a sexual relationship and was also told by a mutual friend about his boasting of sexual encounters with others. Surprisingly, I don’t hold animosity toward him for this. It was an experience that shaped me.
Fast forward to my marriage with my husband, Shama. About a year in, he brought up his concern about my lack of effort in initiating sexual intimacy. It wasn’t an issue in the early days of our relationship, and while he was sensitive, he was curious enough to dig deeper. Together, we explored this part of our relationship, which led me to uncover an uncomfortable truth: My past wounds, as a rape survivor, had created an association between sex and self-defence—something to guard against rather than something to share.
With Shama, I began to rebuild my understanding of intimacy, transforming it from something tied to shame and fear into a healthy expression of connection. Around this time, my ex-partner’s mother slipped something into conversation that caught me off guard. She mentioned how, after the relationship ended, my ex had felt unwanted and unfulfilled in our relationship. It was a shock to hear, as it had never been communicated during the relationship.
But instead of reacting defensively, I reflected on her words. They added another layer to my understanding of how my own fears and unresolved wounds had contributed to the emotional distance in that relationship.
This realisation didn’t excuse anyone’s actions, but it deepened my perspective on how walls are built on both sides.
Breaking the Cycle
This is the cost of unexamined wounds: They trap us in a cycle where we create the very things we’re trying to avoid. The person behind the wall becomes so focused on protecting themselves that they can’t see how their actions contribute to the disconnect. The person on the outside becomes so consumed by feeling unseen that they withdraw, unintentionally reinforcing the distance.
But a relationship doesn’t have to remain in this cycle.
The path forward lies in growth—for both individuals and as a team. It begins with shared vulnerability: the willingness to lay down defences, to acknowledge wounds without letting them dictate the present, and to approach each other with curiosity instead of assumptions.
For the one behind the wall, it means asking hard questions: What did my pain teach me? What am I holding onto, and how is it affecting my connection? How can I trust this person for who they are, not who I fear they might be?
For the one left unseen, it means reclaiming your voice and expressing your truth: This is how I feel. This is what I need. How can we work together to bridge this gap?
True connection isn’t built by one person alone. It requires both people to grow—not just individually but together. When both partners commit to this kind of growth, something powerful happens. Trust begins to form—not from perfect actions, but from the shared effort of showing up for each other, over and over again.
This growth strengthens the connection. It allows the relationship to evolve, not as a place to hide from pain, but as a space to create something new. Walls turn into bridges, and the distance that once divided is replaced by a bond forged in mutual effort and care.
Because relationships, at their best, aren’t just about avoiding harm. They’re about building trust, fostering growth, and creating something that serves both people—individually and as a team.
So maybe the question isn’t just about breaking the cycle of loneliness. Maybe it’s about asking: What can we create together that truly serves us both?