I am watching Yellowstone, and there’s a scene where Kevin Costner’s character John Dutton realizes that he does not really have a relationship with his adult children. He relates to them as his employees, as tools in his empire. Realizing this, he makes an effort at dinner to talk to them differently—to try and talk to them as his children rather than as people who work for him or do business with him. This goes poorly, they respond with coldness, and he leaves the table in frustration. It’s a heartbreaking scene, and it speaks to one of the challenges we often face when we develop new insights and try to make changes in how we relate to those we love.
There are usually a lot of reasons that we relate to others in a particular way. In Yellowstone, John Dutton’s myopic focus on his ranch precludes almost everything and everyone else in his life. He’s spent decades living his life focused on that one thing. This has created expectations and patterns in those around him and has shaped his relationships with them. This is true for all of us. For example, if we struggle with being considerate, expressing warmth, sharing kindness, or telling other people we love them, the people around us will learn that—and will likely have been hurt by it. They will, in turn, develop their own defenses and expectations. This dynamic works both ways—when others struggle with their own challenges, we develop expectations and protective mechanisms about how we will interact with them as well. These mutual limitations and expectations, over time, become entrenched patterns that are difficult to change.
Given this, what happens when we look at ourselves—or look at our relationships—and realize that things are missing, or that we want to do things differently? What happens when we decide to express our love more, when we want to be more involved, when we want to relate differently? Sometimes it goes well, and whatever changes we are making are well received. This is great, because these changes are usually hard to make, and making them requires courage. When it works well, these changes create a self-reinforcing cycle, as the people around us respond positively to the effort we are making, which in turn encourages us to make more of the effort.
Often though, like John Dutton, it does not go so well. Rather than beautifully expressing our feelings or sharing more openly what we feel, it comes across as awkward, stilted, or not quite right. We’ve screwed up our courage and taken a risk, and rather than being recognized and applauded for that risk—for trying to do things differently—it falls flat. It is said poorly despite our best efforts. Our fumbling attempt is not well received. Instead of positive reinforcement for taking a risk, our efforts do not land, and we are left feeling worse for having tried. This does not encourage us to continue taking risks. We tend to retreat back into the familiar patterns we know.
When we try to change long-standing relational habits, it’s almost inevitable that our first efforts will feel clumsy and land awkwardly. Fluency with new emotional language isn’t automatic—it’s built through practice, and practice is awkward. We don’t expect to play a new instrument well the first time we pick it up, yet we’re often surprised when our attempts to express warmth or vulnerability feel off or sound off-key. That early awkwardness is not failure—it’s the sound of learning. It’s what progress sounds like when we are learning to speak in a voice we haven’t used before.
Screwing up the courage to try something new once is hard—persisting in doing it after the first fumbled attempt feels like a failure is harder still. Understanding that building fluency is a long-term project is is a re-frame we need if we are to change. If we understand these first stumbling steps as progress on an important path, we are more apt to persist. If we view them as proof of the futility of our effort—as evidence that the old way is the only way—we will not continue. Instant gratification is lovely, but rare. Choosing to persist is the work of transformation, and it often has to happen in the dark, long before we see any result.
To stay engaged in this kind of change, we need self-compassion. We have to notice our discomfort and disappointment without getting swallowed by it. We have to be able to speak to ourselves kindly when things don’t go well, reminding ourselves that growth is hard. We need to be able to softly remind ourselves that missteps are part of the path, not evidence of our unworthiness or failure. We cannot look at the parts of ourselves that are lacking if our inward gaze is filled with scorn, judgment, or harshness. Without this compassion, it becomes too easy to give in to the discomfort and retreat.
Our relationships are, perhaps more than anything else, what give our lives meaning, happiness, and contentment. They are drivers of our physical health. All of this effort—fumbling, trying again, facing discomfort, speaking gently to ourselves—is not optional if we want to deepen our connection to each other. We live in a society that is experiencing an epidemic of loneliness and isolation. The only antidote to that is connection—and the skills of connection are challenging. I talk to people every day who have a longing for more connection: to love more openly, to relate more honestly, to be more connected and less alone. Making that change is learning a new language, and building fluency does not happen after one try. It’s a mindset shift to embrace the obstacle, the discomfort, the fumbling, and to know that those are signs of growth. The measure of success is daring to learn the new language—not how well we speak it during our first attempt. Its having the courage to persist, even though the words don’t feel natural or normal at first.
Cheers,
Doc
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