Let’s talk about attachment.
What is attachment theory? It’s the idea that how we bonded with our caregivers as children shapes how we connect with people as adults. It sounds simple, right? I thought so too—until I started listening to Attached by Amir Levine and Rachel Heller. And let me tell you, this book is a hard pill to swallow. If you haven’t read it yet, take it slow. Read (or listen) in small doses, because if you’re anything like me, you’ll need time to process.
For the longest time, I just… existed in my relationships. Moving through them, reacting, clinging, over-analyzing—without ever stopping to ask why. I thought my need for reassurance was just who I was, not something I could question or, dare I say, change. I thought love was supposed to feel like a constant battle between wanting and fearing, craving and dreading, holding on and waiting for the inevitable moment when I’d have to let go.
But let’s back up. There are four attachment styles: secure, avoidant, anxious, and disorganized. Secure people? They’re the ones who can communicate their needs, set boundaries, and trust in the stability of their relationships. Avoidants? They run from intimacy, keep people at a distance, and value independence above all else. Disorganized folks tend to oscillate between anxious and avoidant behaviors, craving connection but also fearing it.
And then there’s anxious attachment. Me. Maybe you, too.
Anxious attachment is living in a state of hyper vigilance in relationships. It’s overthinking every text message, every pause in conversation, every slight shift in tone. It’s mistaking uncertainty for rejection. It’s needing constant reassurance but being too afraid to ask for it. It’s attaching quickly, feeling deeply, and fearing abandonment so intensely that sometimes you push people away before they even get the chance to leave.
It’s exhausting.
And the worst part? It doesn’t just show up in romantic relationships. It bleeds into friendships, work, self-worth—everything. It’s the fear that you’re never enough, the need to prove your value, the gut-wrenching panic that if you don’t perform your worth, people will forget you exist.
But here’s the thing: awareness is the first step. Recognition. Acknowledgment. Sitting in the discomfort of realizing that this thing—this deeply ingrained way of operating—isn’t serving you.
I won’t lie. That realization is terrifying. But it’s also kind of amazing. Because if I can name it, I can change it. I can unlearn. I can grow.
So here’s to the work. To breathing through the discomfort. To rewiring old patterns and trusting that the right people will meet me where I am—without me having to beg them to stay.
BRB, going to talk to my therapist.
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