Repair Is a Love Language: The Conversation That Could’ve Gone Wrong—But Didn’t

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I don’t even really know how to start this.
It’s incredible how much healing can happen in just a few minutes.

I walked into the house, and Elizabeth said,

“Could you put the food dish on the ground when giving it to the cat? Maybe that would encourage them to stay off the counters and away from our food?”

I just stood there. Frozen.
Trying to process what she meant—but I could feel it happening. That familiar inner contraction. I was triggered. And I knew it wasn’t about her… but still, my body was reacting.

And I’m sure my face said everything I wasn’t able to.

Elizabeth, being the intuitive and generous human she is, kept talking—trying to explain. She knows her own patterns. She often leaves food on the counter, intending to come back to it. And lately the cats have gotten bold. They’ve been jumping up and helping themselves to whatever’s there, even though they know better.

What she was offering was a practical idea:
“Maybe if we put their bowls on the ground, they’ll stop expecting food at counter height.”

Totally fair. Totally logical.

But what I heard was:
“You’re a bad cat mom.”
“You’ve done a shitty job training them.”
“You need to get it together.”

Oof.

None of that came out of her mouth—but that’s what my nervous system latched onto.

Here’s some context about my kitties:
I’ve had a whole journey with these cats.

Eli, the older one, was chill. Never touched my food unless it was fish. I never had to worry.

Then came Auggie.
Curious. Bold. Persistent.
He wanted everything I was eating, all the time. I tried everything—no people food, water bottle deterrents, you name it. Eventually, we struck a deal: he waits patiently while I eat, and when I’m done, he gets to lick the plate. But only if I’m on the couch or the bench—not the table or counters.

It worked for us.
And it felt like something I had finally figured out.

So when Elizabeth made her suggestion, it hit something tender. Not because she was wrong—but because I felt judged. Even though she wasn’t judging me.

I walked upstairs and cried.

Because I knew I was triggered.
And I knew it wasn’t about her.
But damn, the old wiring in my body is strong.

I grew up around passive aggression. I learned to read between the lines like my life depended on it. To preempt the explosion. To keep the peace. So now, even when someone is making a totally neutral request, my system goes into threat mode.

But I don’t live in that house anymore.
And my body is slowly learning that.

After I cried, I went back downstairs. I didn’t say anything right away—she was on her way out—but I knew I needed to reconnect. I didn’t want to leave the energy hanging. I wanted to clear the air.

Later that night, she came into my room.

She said she had sensed me being a little defensive and wanted to clarify what she meant. She walked me through it again with care and kindness. She didn’t owe me that—but she gave it anyway.

I got to share with her that I’d been triggered.
That I heard something she didn’t say.
That I knew it wasn’t about her, and I was proud of myself for realizing it in real time.

We talked about growing up. About dogs. I also got to share something I hadn’t fully named before: About how I had internalized this “you left food out? That’s your fault” mentality.

I want to be someone who supports people with beautiful neurodivergent brains. Elizabeth has ADHD. Sometimes she walks away from food, mid-task, mid-thought. She shouldn’t have to worry that the cats will demolish her food because of that.

So yeah—we’ll try putting the food on the ground.
Because it’s a good idea.
And because I’m in a space now where I can choose to collaborate instead of react.

I was never angry at her. Not once.
But I told her—an older version of me would’ve been.
Because I wouldn’t have caught that I was triggered.
I would’ve believed the story my brain made up.
And I would’ve shut down or lashed out instead of leaning in.

She told me a past version of herself wouldn’t have had the repair conversation either. She would’ve retreated to her room and hoped I wasn’t mad.

Instead, here we were.
Both of us doing our own work.
Meeting each other in the middle.

I was sitting on the chaise lounge while we talked, and at the end, she reached over and gently squeezed my foot. Just a couple times.
And it meant so much.

I forget how connecting touch is for me.
I forget that safety can feel like something that small.

I’m so grateful to be living here.
This is just one of so many healing moments I’ve had since I moved in.

When two people are doing their work—when they take full responsibility for their own reactions, triggers, and repairs—it’s wild what becomes possible.

I haven’t started dating again yet, but one of my biggest fears was that I’d backslide. I’ve spent the last seven years doing deep, often lonely work. And I worried that being in relationship—any relationship—would pull me backward.

But living with Elizabeth has taught me something else:
It’s not backsliding.
It’s exponential growth.
Because now I have somewhere to practice all of it.

Yes, it might be messy.
Yes, I might fumble.
But I’m not alone.
And I can do this.

At the end of the conversation, Elizabeth shook my hand and said:
“It’s nice to meet this version of you.”

I smiled and said,
“It’s nice to meet this version of you too.”

And honestly?
It’s nice to meet this version of me.
I’m just getting to know her.

And I fucking love her.