When Couples Therapy Doesn’t “Work”
(Not because no one tried, but because something vital was no longer being chosen.)
I just stepped out of a session with one partner in the aftermath of a couple’s therapy rupture, a decision to exit. What surfaced was more than I’ve ever heard before, not just from them, but from the dynamic itself. And it left me questioning not only what had unfolded in their relationship, but how I personally navigate that in-between space, the place between ending and staying, in the way I lead, hold, and respond.
What happens when a boundary is set but not kept, not out of defiance, but fear? When love still lingers, but clarity has left the room?
Here’s where it took me…
There’s a particular kind of ache when two people stop reaching for each other.
Not out of rage. Not in a dramatic rupture.
But in quiet resignation.
In the slow retreat from hope.
In couples therapy, it doesn’t always happen loudly.
Sometimes it’s just the absence of the turn-toward.
The stillness where there used to be a bid for connection.
And when that happens, I feel it.
Not just as a therapist, but as a human.
As someone who believes in repair.
There’s a sore spot this presses on.
What did I miss?
What wasn’t said in the room?
What had already been decided long before the words caught up?
I reflect not to take responsibility for their choice,
but because it matters to me how I show up.
Do I, like one of their partners, have a tendency to overreach?
To go past my own halfway point in hopes of salvaging what’s slipping away?
Or can I pause.
Wait.
Hold the boundary, even in myself.
And ask, “What does this new stance mean for them? What are they choosing now?”
In one recent case, my position had to shift.
I didn’t attempt to salvage.
I simply made sure each person understood what their choice meant,
not just for the moment,
but for the relationship they once longed to repair.
Holding them in the defeat and the pain.
Because when two people are still willing to reach for each other…
the dance continues.
Even if it’s clumsy. Even if it’s hard.
When you do this, I do this…
isn’t just a pattern.
It’s a sign that they still care enough to keep dancing.
Even when it is an incredibly difficult dance.
But when the music stops, not from exhaustion, but from refusal,
sometimes the most respectful thing I can do
is not turn the music back on…
but sit in the silence with them,
until they decide what comes next.
And sometimes, that silence is interrupted.
I just came out of a post-session with only one of partners.
What they shared was more than I’ve ever heard before.
Things once too painful to disclose, now spoken.
The veil lifted. The dance made clearer.
The reality?
A boundary was set, but not kept.
“I can’t keep going, I need to leave”
Yet, they remain in limbo.
Still hovering.
Still circling a decision they can’t quite land.
Not because they don’t know what they want.
But because what comes after…
The grief, the finality, the loss…
Feels too big to face.
Neither is upholding what was agreed to.
Not out of defiance, but out of fear.
Fear of what it means to really end.
Fear of being the one who walked away.
Fear that letting go might feel like failing.
And now, without a shared commitment,
the dance that once had rhythm becomes something harder to name.
More chaotic.
Less grounded.
This is what happens when the middle space is stretched too thin.
When the boundary is spoken but not lived.
When connection is wanted… but not chosen.
They don’t know how to feel
or where to land
because the floor beneath them keeps shifting.
And as the therapist, I can’t hold the relationship for them.
I can only hold the mirror.
Hold the moment.
Hold the truth.
Because leadership, in therapy, in love, in life,
isn’t about forcing clarity.
It’s about staying present in the murkiness.
Sometimes, the most important work I do
is not leading people forward,
but allowing them to fully feel
where they are.
