If I Have to Tell You, It Doesn’t Count”: Why That’s Not True (And Why It Feels So True)

There’s a reason it feels awful to explain to your partner how to show up for you.
On a gut level, it can feel fake — like if they really loved you, they’d just know.

But here’s the kicker:
That belief didn’t come from nowhere. It came from a lifetime of you reading the room before the room exploded.

You learned to scan for danger before anyone else noticed the shift.
You learned to protect siblings, protect yourself, clean the house to minimize the blow-ups, and soften the tension before it swallowed everyone whole.

Those instincts kept you alive.
They’re strengths.
They’re also… exhausting.

And when you bring those superpowers into your adult relationships, things get complicated.

The Part Where You Show Up Like a Pro, and They… Don’t

In partnership, when your person is upset, you jump in with tenderness, precision, and emotional first aid:

• a shoulder to cry on

• grounded perspective

• tea (or whiskey)

• warmth

• presence

• and the ability to read exactly what they need without them saying a word

But when you’re hurt?
You get, “Wow, that sucks.”
And suddenly you’re spiraling.

Why don’t they love me like I love them?
Why can’t they see what I need?
Why do they ask me to explain everything?

And then comes the line so many trauma-trained kids (now adults) carry:

“If I have to tell you, you’re only doing it for me — so it’s not real.”

But here’s the truth you’ll hate:

Yes. They are doing it for you.
And that’s what makes it real.

They don’t have your survival-based emotional radar.
They don’t instinctively know whether you need silence, validation, protection, or someone to scream on your behalf about the asshole who cut you off.

They need instruction.
They need clarity.
They need you to tell them what matters.

And that doesn’t make them less loving — it makes them human.

Sometimes love is learning how to support you even when it feels awkward, robotic, or unnatural.
It is forced at first.
Because they’re stretching beyond their default settings.

That stretch?
That’s love.

The Part Where You Freeze When It’s Your Turn

Here’s where things break down further:
You know what everyone else needs.
But you have no language for your own needs.

Why?

Because:

A. You’ve always handled your pain alone. No one taught you to speak it.
B. You were punished or shamed for having “big feelings.”
C. Vulnerability was unsafe — weakness was risky.
D. You’re so practiced at putting others first that you barely notice your internal alarms until you’re in full collapse mode.

By the time you need support, you’re beyond capacity.
Your brain isn’t online.
There are no words.
Of course you can’t articulate what you need — you’re maxed the fuck out.

The Fantasy: “If They Really Knew Me…”

Somewhere inside, a younger part of you still believes:

If my partner really sees me — sees the trauma responses, the armor, the competence —
they’ll see the hidden hurt beneath it.
They’ll recognize the invisible wounds I never voiced.
They’ll know exactly how to be there for me.
No questions.
No instructions.
Just perfect attunement.

And then
finally
you’ll feel understood.
Finally safe.
Finally loved the way you deserved all along.

It’s such a tender hope.
It makes perfect sense.

It’s also heartbreakingly unrealistic.

The Not-So-Charming Reality

Your partner cannot retroactively parent you.
They cannot create the space you needed as a child.
They cannot repair wounds they didn’t cause.

Real love doesn’t grant psychic abilities.
It doesn’t make someone suddenly fluent in the emotional language you weren’t allowed to develop.

You have to grieve that.
(Not everyone chooses to — but you get to.)

And yes, that grief is deeply unsatisfying.

So What Can Love Do?

A partner can’t undo the losses, but they can do something else:

• hold you while you grieve

• sit with you through uncertainty

• repair the moment when they miss the mark

• offer comfort in the way you say you need

• walk alongside you as you build the skills and spaces you were never offered

They can bring you tea and a book when you don’t have the words.
They can ground you while you relearn how to be cared for.
They can love you in the present while you mourn what you weren’t given in the past.

That’s what healing in relationships actually looks like.

Not someone magically filling old voids.
But someone who’s willing to show up, learn you, and stay — even when it’s messy, unclear, or foreign.

That’s real.
That’s love.
And yes, that counts.