Hi there! I’m Michal, and I’m here building a community for women who want to understand the invisible patterns shaping their relationships—and begin to interrupt those patterns in positive ways.

Hi ,

You probably didn’t subscribe to this newsletter because you really wanted to get a handle on something called Bowen Theory. Maybe you ran across one of my articles and thought that it offered a helpful perspective on a challenge you face in your own relationships. Or you might know me in real life, and be curious enough just to see what I am publishing each week.

And yet, when I started this Substack six months ago, I set out to write a series of articles explaining the concepts from Bowen Theory that have been most useful to me. I wanted to show how an alternate perspective on my own relationships helped me to become stronger, calmer, and more confident. So, even though you’re not expecting me to complete some basic outline of Bowen Theory, that was the deal I made with myself. The final concept I planned to explore was Relationship Triangles.

Triangles

Over the past two weeks I have written four different drafts on the Bowen Theory concept of Triangles. Those drafts are garbage. After six months of being pretty consistent in posting weekly, I have now gone three weeks without a single post. I am struggling to explain a concept that is so broad and so common that it can be hard to see it. But once you see it, it’s impossible to unsee. You’ll be on the phone with your best friend and it’ll suddenly hit you: I’m triangling. Or you’ll start talking to your spouse about a conflict at work, and it’ll hit you again. I’m triangling.

The basic idea is that one-to-one relationships are inherently unstable. When pressure builds up in a relationship between two people, the relationship engages a third person to stabilize it. But that idea is so abstract, it’s difficult to make it useful. And I’m only interested in writing useful words about Bowen theory.

There are many good reasons to involve a third person in a relationship when anxiety is high. Here are a few examples: Talking to a pastor, counselor, or therapist can help a married couple spot the negative patterns in their own relationship, and begin to rebuild on a more solid foundation. Calling your best friend when you’ve had a conflict with your mother can help you to gain some perspective on the situation and dial back your anxiety. Getting advice from a mentor when you keep bumping into the same behavioral problem with your young child can help you see a different way forward. But for every way these triangles go right, they can and do go wrong.

I’d like to try something a little different for this article. After all, this Substack is just one giant experiment. This article might be a little more clinical than usual. After today, I’d like to branch out and get much more personal. But, as I said, I have to plow through this topic before I can move on! Rather than zero in on a particular dynamic and explain it in detail, I’m going to briefly explain the most common types of Triangles. We’ll explore those patterns in the specific context of marriage and parenting. And instead of using stories to illustrate the triangle patterns, I’m going to use a Sharpie.

I’ve drawn some diagrams to show the various types of Broken Triangles that we find ourselves in. In each triangle diagram, there are two parents on top, and a bottom circle that is a child. Think of the one with the blue circle as yourself. At least try it on for size. Take a moment to consider whether it might describe your position. Then try out the other parent triangle for size. Next, slide on down to the bottom circle. Ask yourself if that’s a triangle that exists between you and your own parents. Finally, consider how these triangles show up in your workplace, church, or friend group.

Triangles in Parenting

The most basic triangle that exists is between father, mother, and child. Husbands and wives are meant to provide support and counsel to one another in the work of parenting a child. That’s a sturdy triangle. Part of the beauty of the male/female divide is that we see things differently. Think about how two eyeballs work together. A person with only one eye sees the same picture that the rest of us see. But their image is two-dimensional. It’s flat. The point of having two eyes is to bring dimension to the picture we’re looking at. That’s why fathers and mothers benefit so much from consulting one another over the work of parenting. But that triangle unit goes sideways, as we all know. Let’s take a look at some of the ways that happens. Broken Triangles can be found in any type of relationship, but today we’re going to look at how they happen in marriage.

Broken Triangle 1: Triangulation

Whenever people are introduced to the idea of Triangles, they mistake it for a more familiar relationship word: triangulation. Triangulation is a kind of Triangle, but only one of many. Triangulation is when two people use a third person to process their conflict. That can mean recruiting someone to take sides with you, or to carry messages when you’re unwilling to speak directly to another person. There are many ways our kids can serve as the middle man between us parents. If a parent loops a child into the parents’ conflict, that’s triangulation. We know our kids should not serve as messengers between us. We must not recruit them to side with us. And they certainly shouldn’t serve as mediators between us. That’s not their job.

Broken Triangle 2: Fortify

My last article was about mothers operating as the hub of communication and relationship connection in their families. But mothers aren’t the only ones who do this. It’s so easy to step into position to stabilize a wobbly relationship between our spouse and a child. We care so deeply about our families that we forget to get out of the way and allow those relationships to grow independently. We insert ourselves into exchanges that don’t need our assistance. We fear that if we aren’t there to stabilize things, the relationship will disintegrate.

Broken Triangle 3: Compensify (Brade Pedal Pattern)

Ok yeah, I’m playing with words here. Another broken triangle is when we try to achieve equilibrium by compensating for one another. It’s so easy to do. One parent is tired and volatile, and snaps at the child. Then the other parent comforts that child. All fine and good, to a point. But what happens when this becomes an ingrained pattern? If one parent tends to be harsh, and the other parent tends to be a push-over, then it turns into a vicious cycle. The harsh parent tries to compensate for the permissive parent, and the permissive parent tries to compensate for the harsh parent. Both are focused on the shortcomings of their spouse. Instead of noticing the ways they reinforce the pattern, they blame their spouse for being too … Permissive or harsh. Indulgent or demanding. Distant or controlling.

But at the root, each parent sees the other as deficient. Motherhood is a relationship. Fatherhood is a relationship. There’s a lot of give and take, divide and conquer in the work of a mother and father. We should compensate for each other, wisely and carefully. But when it comes to the core substance of parenting, each of us must decide how we want to operate in that one-to-one relationship. I can’t outsource the key responsibilities to my husband. Affection, communication, love, and discipline must be a part of each one-to-one relationship. It’s a package deal in parenting, and each of us must commit to being a whole parent to that child, regardless of how the other parent operates.

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Broken Triangle 4: Parentify (overfunction/underfunction pattern)

Another buzzword that you’re probably familiar with is parentify. This means that the child is made to serve in the capacity of a parent in some way. Sometimes, one parent turns to a child for emotional support. Sometimes, a child is relied upon to parent younger siblings, or keep the peace in the home, or keep the other parent in line.

When children are given responsibility in the home, it increases their confidence. Kids can clean, babysit, fix meals, and do many other chores. This grows their skills for life and makes them proud of the ways that they contribute to the work of the home. They know they are valuable and useful.

But if one parent relies upon a child to do the work of the other parent, it’s just that overfunction/underfunction pattern all over again. This puts the child in a very vulnerable position. If the child feels that things will fall to pieces without him, that child is being required to take the role of a parent.

Broken Triangle 5: Projectify (child focus pattern)

Finally, let’s look at the most subtle of these parenting triangles. This triangle emerges when there are problems in the marriage that we are unwilling to address. We unconsciously feel around for something that will unite us. Often, the best opportunity is to make a project of the child. We turn the focus of the marriage toward a child’s problems—real or perceived. These might be behavioral problems, health problems, relationship problems.

Tension mounts in our marriages over all sorts of difficult topics—sex, money, work schedules, family drama, normal stress… but some of those discussions are too high stakes so we avoid them. Or the conflict has been going on for years but with no resolution. The tension is still there, looking for an outlet. Much of the time, the kid just becomes the escape valve for us to process the conflict that already exists in the marriage. And no kid deserves that!

Sometimes, we focus on reaching consensus about how to help the child. Sometimes, we argue about the child. It doesn’t really matter if we’re united or divided about the project child. Being united feels better. But it’s still easier to fight about a child’s behavior problems than to carefully work through the resentment, immaturity, and selfishness that lurks in every marriage. By turning the relationship’s intense focus onto that child, we make things worse. But it allows us to avoid thinking or talking about our own issues.

Sometimes we think that we must, above all, form a united front. But I’d like to argue that united fronts aren’t always necessary or desirable. We don’t need to relate to the child as one single parental unit. We don’t adopt one single view of their character.

Instead, we should gather information from our spouse, and use that to inform our own approach. We operate as two different eyeballs. We bring our full self to our own direct relationship to the child.

We each should work to build a sturdy, one-to-one relationship with our child. The collaborative work of parenting informs that relationship, and how we understand our child. Getting information and feedback from the other eyeball (your spouse) means you will have much more dimension to your understanding of your child and their needs. The mother approaches an issue as a mother. The father approaches the issue as a father. It matters.

Conclusion

The marriage should be a one-to-one relationship that doesn’t revolve around the pressing needs of the children. Each day might revolve around those needs. But the relationship should not!

I get it. A lot of the work of parenting requires a divide and conquer approach. But if our marriage is secondary to our parenting project, then we’ve gotten the cart in front of the horse. Working on a project together is a great way to grow a marriage and mature as a couple. Whether that is building a house or building a family, the project stretches us and unites us in a common endeavor. But the marriage must not be about the child. We are not co-parents. We are a husband and wife. We are a father and mother.

The idea of triangles helped me realize that relationships should not be about someone or something else. Even in the stable triangle of father, mother and child, the triangle should consist of three distinct relationships. The strongest and most resilient families are built upon sturdy one-to-one connections. Members of the family communicate directly to one another. They resolve conflict between individuals, and they operate with a measure of freedom within the context of that family culture, because the family is built upon strong relationships, not broken triangles.

If something in this newsletter resonates with you, or if you have any questions or follow-ups, hit the reply button and tell me! I’d love to hear from you, and I respond to every message.

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Hi there! I’m Michal, and I’m here building a community for women who want to understand the invisible patterns shaping their relationships—and begin to interrupt those patterns in positive ways.

Mothers are the resident expert on their own babies. That’s by design. After carrying a baby in utero for 9 months, we instinctively know a thing or two about them. Babies are mysterious, but if anyone can get inside the head of a baby, it’s his mother.

A mother naturally interprets the cues of her newborn. When the baby cries, a breastfeeding mother’s own body tells her when that cry indicates hunger. She knows that baby better than the father does, because the father and the baby have only just met. She is more attuned to other cues for needs like a diaper change or sleep, too. If the dad is holding the baby, the mom will carefully communicate these needs, so that he won’t put the baby to bed when the baby is crying with hunger, or vice versa. It’s her job to be the expert on that baby, and it is hardwired into her body to meet the baby’s every need.

But as soon as a baby is born, it is the job of a father to begin getting to know that baby. And in order for that to happen, it’s crucial that the mother soon begin to curb her instinct to interpret everything for the father. It’s hard to stop. But it’s really important. Let me tell you why.

It’s easier to spot the problem with boys. If a mother is still operating like the resident expert—interpreting a son’s cues to his father—when he is fourteen, despite the fact that she has never actually been a fourteen-year-old boy, and the father has, then she has waited far too long.

Even for daughters, though, I think that we mothers should hesitate before interpreting the daughter to her father. After all, the father has contributed half of that daughter’s DNA, and he likely understands some things about her better than the mother does. If the mother expects that the father needs her perpetual intervention in order to relate to his daughter, then the father hears the message loud and clear. To him, it sounds like a vote of no confidence. The daughter hears it too.

Mothers also have the privilege of formally introducing a baby to his siblings. In fact, we first introduce the baby to nearly everyone and everything. It’s a big, beautiful piece of motherhood. What can be more delightful than introducing a baby to a mirror, or to running water, or best of all, to a ceiling fan? And those firsts don’t hold a candle to the experience of introducing your baby to his grandparents, or your best friend. It’s natural that we are the one making the first connections between the baby and the people that form their family and their world.

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Sometimes we don’t step out after the introduction, though. In our enthusiasm for the work of connecting, we forget to get out of the way. We linger in that in-between space, inadvertently making ourselves an accessory to every relationship in the family. When two siblings are squabbling, mom steps in. When dad and son disagree loudly about the use of the family car, mom intervenes. When a brother is picking out a birthday present for his sister, mom consults. Mom explains each party to the other—mediating, negotiating, conveying unspoken emotions and thoughts and desires from one person to the other.

As women, we convey a lot of information—of emotions, of messages, of plans. We are like telephone operators, connecting the people in our lives to the people that are important to them. We stand at the switchboard, making connections all day every day. No surprise then when we become harried and anxious. We can’t take a vacation, or even a sick day. If we’re not there to connect those people, the family won’t hold together. And if the connection is bad, or there’s static in the line, or there is a lag, the telephone operator often gets blamed. And if others don’t blame her, she may still blame herself.

There are many good reasons to be the family’s telephone operator. When we step in, we might be modeling good conflict resolution. We might be protecting them from speaking harsh words in anger. We might be sharing information to prevent a mistake or miscommunication.

But we also might be exhausting ourselves, underestimating the capacity of our children or husband, getting in the way of their own relationships to one another. We might be stunting their growth, or projecting our own desires onto them by communicating for them. There is certainly a place for mediating, peacekeeping, separating, and interpreting. And as mothers we live in that space. But we need to think carefully about the long-term consequences of being keen to intervene.

Bowen theory teaches that relationships usually arrange themselves into triangles. When pressure mounts between two people, a third person is often pulled in to stabilize the one-to-one relationship. Triangles aren’t inherently bad or good. They’re just a fact of life. Just like distance, conflict, and accommodation, they can be good or bad. But once we see our relationships as a series of interconnected triangles, there’s no unseeing it.

When I began to study the concept of Triangles in Bowen theory, the triangles in my own family began to appear before my eyes. Examining my own relationships carefully, I noticed that I sometimes act like the hub of a wagon wheel. The other members of my family—my husband and kids—are neatly spaced around the rim of the wheel. And I am placing myself at the center, with the other members spinning around me.

In a physical sense, the home is the hub of a family. We gather there, then launch out on different trajectories, then gather again at home. As a homemaker, I do a lot of the sending out and receiving people back. I take messages. I make the meals. I keep the family calendar up to date and transport kids to and from school and all of that. I’m the manager of the home, and I love my job! But I can be the manager of our home without being the perpetual manager of its relationships.

Rather than spend each day relaying information or intent, I want to be a mother who fosters relationships by creating the environment where those relationships will flourish. Yes, I want our home to be a physical space that welcomes them in and makes them comfortable. But I also want the emotional and spiritual climate of our home to foster strong family connections. I want to build the sort of home culture where people take responsibility for themselves, own up to their mistakes and sins, and resist the urge to blame others for all their problems. I want to structure our weeks in such a way that the entire family all gathers at the dinner table at least once a week (yes, even the teenagers!). I want to celebrate one another’s achievements and milestones. I want the people living in our home to bump into each other on a regular basis. But even more than that, I want to build a home culture where people value one-to-one relationships without needing me to maintain them.

As my kids grow into adults, we’re slowly dismantling the wagon wheel. I’m vacating the center, and we’re restructuring in a different sort of shape. I guess you could say that we’re decentralizing. These days, we look more like a skwish toy. We want to be resilient. Dimensional. Each node is connected directly to the other nodes, and we can flex under pressure.

A family grows more sturdy and flexible when its members form stronger one-to-one relationships. A family like that can absorb a great deal of impact. When one point is weak, or one relationship is strained, the family’s identity is not compromised. The one-to-one relationships do not rely on a third person to interpret, mediate, or convey messages. Sure, we all like to gather together and celebrate Christmas or a birthday. But when the family can’t gather as one, we’re still sturdy and we still love one another.

A friend of mine is a mother with adult children scattered across several states. One day, she told me that one of her greatest joys in motherhood is watching the way her adult children support and encourage one another. She told me that her kids sometimes get together without her or her husband, and they don’t mind a bit. Those children she raised have formed strong one-to-one relationships with one another. And they will stay connected even when she is long gone.

My kids are older, and my role as mother is not conditional on my expert status. I can admit that I don’t always know what my children want or need, and I’m not always the best at reading their cues. My husband and kids don’t need me to inhabit the space between them. They have sturdy relationships growing stronger year by year. As their mother, it’s no longer my job to get inside their heads, because I know I’m in their hearts.

If something in this newsletter resonates with you, or if you have any questions or follow-ups, hit the reply button and tell me! I’d love to hear from you, and I respond to every message.

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Hi there! I’m Michal, and I’m here building a community for women who want to understand the invisible patterns shaping their relationships—and begin to interrupt those patterns in positive ways.

My husband Ben has a high-demand skill set. For years he worked as a graphic designer. People often need help designing something, or tweaking something—a logo, a website, a pamphlet, brochure or invitation.

I like making people happy. Despite my penchant for conflict, I’m generally available and approachable. Even agreeable. For years, when people had a project they wanted Ben’s help with, they would bring it up in conversation to me. Friends, family, acquaintances–they often approached me first. It all happened naturally enough.

“Do you think Ben would be able to help me with this web page I’m setting up?”

I’d respond, “Probably he could. I’ll ask him later.”

And just like that, their project became my problem. First, I’d have to remember to bring it up with my husband. Then, I’d try to bring it up at a moment when he would be inclined to respond favorably. Then, I’d feel responsible for making sure he followed through. If the person making the request was being a pain to work with, I’d feel responsible for that, and feel bad for Ben. If Ben wasn’t responding as quickly as the other person’s timeline required, I’d feel bad for them.

In these situations, Ben hadn’t fielded the original request, so until he discussed it face-to-face with the asker, he didn’t feel the same goodwill or urgency that I did. He is also less prone to adopting other peoples’ projects and problems like stray cats. If he had heard it directly from them, perhaps he would be more inclined to oblige. But with a middleman in place, the urgency wasn’t removed. It was displaced. The person feeling the urgency was the one person who couldn’t complete the job: me.

Once I had given some indication of Ben’s agreeable availability, I felt responsible for making good on it. I knew better than to agree to something on his behalf. But somehow I had slipped into the role of middleman between him and others. Inevitably, I would try to exert pressure of my own. I would appeal to Ben to meet the other person’s expectations.

Eventually, I noticed that I was spending my own relationship capital on projects that weren’t mine. I didn’t need my husband to design nice brochures for people. I didn’t need those people to think my husband was a super nice, accommodating guy.

Let’s be honest. Sometimes he wasn’t.

Why was I pretending like he just lived to do design projects for them? It was disingenuous. Sometimes, he was happy to do the jobs. But mostly that was when the request was communicated directly to him, without a side dish of guilt and marital pressure.

When I saw the pattern I was caught in, I changed course. From that point on, I stopped answering questions or making agreeable predictions about Ben or his work. If someone asked me if Ben could help them with something, I responded instead with these words:

“I’m not sure. You should ask him.”

Over time, I fielded fewer and fewer requests for Ben’s help. Once I stopped being so helpful, people got into the habit of approaching Ben directly. I was instantly relieved of managing other people’s expectations for my husband.

But then, things got even better when unexpected side benefit appeared: I could now use all my powers of persuasion and influence with my own husband for my own means. I didn’t need to find the right time to mention my neighbor’s “missing cat” flier. Now we could use those moments to tackle our own projects—like planning weekend adventures with our kids.

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When I first started reading about Bowen Theory, I struggled to understand the concept of Triangles. Bowen taught that when anxiety rises in a relationship, a third person often gets pulled in to stabilize things. He called this triangling. This may be one of the most complex concepts in Bowen Theory. Instead of discussing this idea abstractly, I’m going to open up several very practical applications of Triangles. I hope that as we examine specific ways the idea can be applied, the broader idea will begin to take shape.

This was the first example that came to my mind and made the idea click. I read about triangles and triangling, and it hit me: I already know this. This is the theory behind my “ask him yourself” rule. I was removing myself from being the third person in someone else’s relationship to my husband. I was guarding our relationship from accidental interference. Bowen theory gave me a name for something that life had already taught me.

In the years since I instituted my “Ask Him Yourself” Rule, it has paid dividends. This isn’t just useful for those of us married to a graphic designer. It’s life-changing for all relationships. When I step out of the position of middle man, everything runs more smoothly. I don’t carry the weight of responsibility for relationships that aren’t mine. I don’t have to relay messages, or predict the future. The less I serve as a messenger, the less I get blamed for miscommunications or unmet expectations. I trust my husband to take on exactly what he’s up for, and to save his best for me and our kids.

Sure, it feels unnatural and uncomfortable at first. Some part of me perpetually wants to reassure others. It feels like I’m letting people down when I say, “I don’t know.” But I’m speaking the truth. And sometimes the truth is disappointing. With practice, I’m getting better at tolerating that disappointment.

It turns out, this skill applies in all areas of life, not just graphic design. It applies to weekend plans and holiday plans. It applies to borrowing tools, and attending events. It applies to volunteer hours and conveying instructions.

I don’t feel bad when Ben doesn’t respond to an email, or doesn’t show up for an event. It is his decision how and when he wants to show up. Even after 20+ years of marriage, I don’t know what he does and doesn’t want, and what he will and won’t do. I think it’s a mark of profound respect when people resist the temptation to speak for one another. People’s lives are complex, and there’s a lot that goes on behind the scenes. I can’t know what all is on someone else’s plate, or on their mind. So I don’t try.

What’s more, I’ve begun to notice when I’m playing a different role in this same dynamic. I sometimes catch myself asking others to convey messages or requests to a third person. Now, I do my best to ask people directly. I still slip up sometimes, and find myself asking someone to ask someone. Or telling someone to tell someone. But every year I get a little better at avoiding that middleman position, and avoiding putting others there.

The more I use the “Ask Him Yourself” Rule, the more I stay out of the middle. The less I speak for others, the less energy I spend managing their expectations for one another. I can focus my attention on managing myself, and stay curious about how others respond to the challenges they face.

I show my respect for others by letting them ask for themselves, and answer for themselves.

If something in this newsletter resonates with you, or if you have any questions or follow-ups, hit the reply button and tell me! I’d love to hear from you, and I respond to every message.

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Hi there! I’m Michal, and I’m here building a community for women who want to understand the invisible patterns shaping their relationships—and begin to interrupt those patterns in positive ways.

The conversation happened years and years ago, but I can still picture the look on my friend’s face when she told me how my words and actions had hurt the rest of the group. I had let them down by failing to keep my side of the bargain. Now everyone else would suffer for my decision. That was the story, anyway.

From the way she framed the story, I could tell exactly who had been talking to her. I desperately wanted to say, “Wait, wait, wait. That’s not what happened at all. Let me explain the timeline here, and tell you exactly what transpired. Give me a chance to share my side of the story!”

Instead, I paused, and considered my next move. Then I acknowledged to her that my decision had been hard on the rest of the group. But instead of explaining my decision and defending myself, I stopped talking. After my acknowledgement, the conversation moved on.

I never set the record straight.

It was a difficult decision, but ultimately, it was the right decision. In order to tell my side of the story, I would have had to call out a third party. And I didn’t want to do that. It wasn’t all generous spirit and Christian charity, though. My decision was also affected by my own desire for privacy. I would have had to reveal some personal plans for my own future that I wanted to keep private for the moment. So, I let it go. I let it go, knowing that this friend’s estimation of me might forever be altered by the other version of the story. I let it go, knowing that this would be the way things were remembered in the group’s collective memory. I let it go, knowing that people would judge me unfairly, and I would never set the record straight.

I look back on that conversation as a watershed moment in my life. In a strange way, I was set free that day. I discovered that I could survive being judged unfairly. I could choose to do what was right for me, regardless of how others perceived my decision. I could even stay friends with people who disapproved of me. Don’t get me wrong—I hated not being able to defend myself. I don’t usually just smooth things over, especially at the expense of my own reputation. I would have loved nothing better than to explain, explain, explain. But it was so freeing to learn that being misunderstood was not, in fact, fatal. I could tolerate the discomfort without letting it control me. I could let it go.

I’m not saying I’ve never fallen into that trap since then. I still get all riled up sometimes when I think I’m being judged unfairly. But I think that was the first time I ever made a conscious decision to let other people think poorly of me. It was an option I had never considered before.

I couldn’t rely on anyone else to prop me up. I couldn’t enlist others to defend my honor. I couldn’t measure my actions based on the responses they prompted in others. I couldn’t cut off the people who had misunderstood my actions. I couldn’t vindicate myself by proving them wrong. I had to act from the strength of my own conviction.

I think that one tricky situation grew my confidence by a magnitude of 10. Because I had to make a decision that others disapproved of and didn’t understand, I had to look upward and inward for the strength to move forward, instead of looking outward. I had to know who I was and where I was headed, instead of defining myself by my reputation.

Differentiation is your ability to know and hold onto who you are—your thoughts, feelings, beliefs, and convictions—while staying connected to others.

We all look at others to define ourselves. We know who we are because we see ourselves in the reflection of other peoples’ eyeballs. In Bowen theory, that’s called a reflected self. We fill in the gaps of our differentiation with performative maturity.

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We all crave respect, approval, and love. Some of us really need to look strong in the eyes of others. Some of us need to know that others need us. Some of us need to know that others see us as independent-minded, or funny, or kind. Some of us really need to know that others see us as someone who doesn’t care what other people think. Think about that for a second.

After retiring, my grandfather was once asked by a journalist, “when you look back on a lifetime of achievement, what are you most proud of?”

And he responded, tongue in cheek, “Sometimes people say that I am a humble man. And that makes me proud!”

My grandfather was giving us a little spoiler alert. Even after a lifetime of faithful work and ministry, achievement, money, accolades, he still caught himself defining himself based on others’ validation, and assessing his own character based on others’ perceptions of him. In other words, he still reverted to a “reflected self.” He enjoyed the reputation of being a humble man, which threatened to compromise the true humility he knew he needed.

I’m not trying to say that we should never care what other people think of us, or work to correct a misunderstanding. Sometimes, we need to look long and hard into the mirror of other people’s eyeballs. We might need someone else’s criticism to force us to evaluate ourselves more honestly. But after hearing someone else’s opinion of us, are we able to resist the siren call of the reflected self?

I can gather information from others without relying on others’ opinions to define me—whether the opinion is good or bad.

I received criticism from a friend. I was able to tolerate the discomfort of being criticized without getting defensive, and without compromising my position. I didn’t take it too seriously.

My grandfather received praise from a stranger. He was able to tolerate the temptation to relish that praise and inflate his own ego. He didn’t take it too seriously.

When we can move through life without getting derailed by either criticism or praise, we engage our core and grow our capacity to act from conviction.

That is the work of growing a differentiated self.

If something in this newsletter resonates with you, or if you have any questions or follow-ups, hit the reply button and tell me! I’d love to hear from you, and I respond to every message.

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Hi there! I’m Michal, and I’m here building a community for women who want to understand the invisible patterns shaping their relationships—and begin to interrupt those patterns in positive ways.

This is part 2 of a short series on the differentiation. Here’s part 1:

My husband once wryly observed that when I ask his advice, I usually go with the opposite of his recommendation. Let’s say we’re seated at a restaurant, menus in hand. I can order whatever I want. But maybe I would say, “I’m trying to decide what to order—the salmon or the steak.” Ben might say,

“Treat yourself. Get the steak.”

I reason to myself,

I don’t need to order the more expensive option in order to treat myself. The price of the meal does not determine its value to me. What a shallow way to look at the world—it’s all just marketing, after all. Ha. I’m above that. I think I’ll go with the salmon.

There. Now you have a glimpse into the mind of a contrarian. Any hint of pressure and I smell coercion… which sends me grasping at autonomy. Pressure makes me disagreeable. That means when I operate out of anxiety, I may default to the opposite of what I think you want to hear. Perhaps I need someone else’s opinion as a foil to my own. I do not know my own mind until I hear yours. And then, suddenly, all is clear. You are wrong.

Am I thinking what you’re thinking?

Others choose to accommodate because they value consensus over autonomy. When they feel threatened they grasp at connectedness and they get matchy-matchy with others. Pressure makes them agreeable. An accommodator might look at the menu and say to themselves, “I think that they think that I want steak. I guess I want steak.” When they feel threatened, they choose whatever it seems that others would like them to choose.

My friend tells me that being an accommodator is a lot like being a cat with a box. She sees a box, and no matter the size or shape of the box, she thinks, “that looks like a nice box to squeeze into.” She steps into the box, turns around a few times, and nestles herself inside. She fits. And it feels good. Accommodators don’t know their own mind until they hear yours. And then, suddenly, all is clear. They can be whatever you need them to be.

I’m not playing this game

And then there are the distancers. The distancers think that they are above it all. They don’t accommodate. They don’t pick a fight. They just opt out. When distancers feel pressure, they withdraw. They like to think they are impervious to the unwanted influence of others. But the only way to keep the illusion in place is to distance themselves from the pressure. Connection itself becomes a threat when anxiety is high. They think they know their own mind until they hear yours. And then, suddenly, nothing is clear. They need radio silence.

All of these responses are strategies to tame the pressure and be free from anxiety. But when we default to any of these modes, we haven’t fought our way free of the emotional field. You know what we all have in common? All of us are still reacting to the pressure in a bid for self-preservation. But freedom doesn’t come from self-preservation. It’s defensive. So how can we operate with freedom instead of living in a perpetual state of reactivity?

How do we just, ya know, be ourselves?

Differentiation ≠ Compensation

If we want to learn to behave in ways that are consistent with what we believe, we have to break the patterns of reactivity. The best way I know to do that is to grow in differentiation.

In last week’s article, I wrote that differentiation means being able to distinguish thought from feeling, and self from others. When we spot our own patterns for the first time, it’s common to switch to a different pattern and think we’ve finally engaged our core. A bit of musical chairs and now I’m differentiated. I’m exercising my own agency by engaging in conflict instead of distancing and avoidant behavior. I’m choosing accommodation instead of my old default of conflict. Ooooo…look how mature I am!

There’s nothing wrong with switching things up a bit. Engaging some relationship mobility is a great way to challenge yourself to growth. But compensation does not equal differentiation.

As someone who defaults to conflict, I like to think I’m differentiated because I can go against the flow. I am an independent thinker. Perhaps a better measure, though, is this: can I go with the flow? For someone who is conflict-forward, high differentiation might look less oppositional, more flexible. It means that someone else voicing an opinion is not perceived as a threat in the first place, and I can choose whatever meal I want from the menu without reverting to the opposite of what is recommended.

For someone who defaults to agreement and accommodation, high differentiation will mean practicing careful conflict. They will become more willing and able to go against the grain and do what is best for them as an individual, without fearing disapproval or rejection.

For someone who defaults to distance, in higher differentiation they will work to stay present and engaged, instead of pulling back. They can withstand pressure without absenting themselves from the system, or cutting off the source of the pressure. They can begin to access their own thinking even when there’s a lot of noise.

Differentiation ≠ Resistance

It might seem that resisting pressure is the core of differentiation. But here’s the problem—people often pressure us to do the very thing that we should do. Sometimes peer pressure, groupthink, and anxious togetherness are pressuring us in the direction of our own desires or our own convictions. If we simply stiff-arm any menu item that is served with a side of pressure, then we might miss out on the best option available to us.

Sometimes we react to pressure by initially rejecting the option we feel is being pushed on us. Then, when the pressure lets up, we find that we are inclined to select the very option we felt pressured toward in the first place. Differentiation might sound like “yes,” or it might sound like “no.” Sometimes it sounds like “I don’t know yet.” The key is that the answer comes from conviction, not anxiety.

Differentiation ≠ Self-reliance

Differentiation also does not mean that we never ask for someone else’s advice, or modify our position based on feedback. It does not mean that we never need help, never give help, never yield our desires to someone else. We still live within systems that bring meaning, order and cooperation to our lives. The goal isn’t to be a law unto yourself. The goal is to behave yourself according to your own convictions and intentions while staying connected to others.

When we grow in differentiation, we can acknowledge the pressure being exerted. Then we can take the options out, set them on the table, and access our own thinking to choose the best way forward.

And then we own the choice.

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Differentiation + Agency = Freedom

Differentiation is grown within the environment of a relationship system when we explore our own convictions, our own desires, our own priorities. It means that whatever we do, we do it with freedom, owning each decision as our own. There is no “look what you made me do” in responsible relating.

When we embark on our own journey of differentiation, we permanently forfeit our right to blame others. We can look back on our past and see all the pressure operating in our family or group, and all the ways we subjected ourselves and others to that pressure. We see the ways that we exerted that pressure on others, often unwittingly (but often enough, wittingly). We lay down blame, and take up the agency that was ours all along. We are engaging our core, growing a differentiated self.

When we take up that agency, we discover that there is so much freedom found in differentiation. Before, our life is a series of very limited options where we can either react towards, against, or away from others. Now, our eyes are opened to a whole world of new possibilities. It’s not just that there are options we never considered. There are options we never even saw.

Our decisions are no longer a function of what others expect from us, how they will perceive us, and how they will respond. When we take up our own agency, we also lay down the responsibility for others’ perceptions. We let go of control. In order to be ourself, we have to have a self.

So which will I order–steak or salmon? I think I’ll go with the steak this time around.

If something in this newsletter resonates with you, or if you have any questions or follow-ups, hit the reply button and tell me! I’d love to hear from you, and I respond to every message.

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When the first goal was scored against us, the crowd went wild. Many of the parents had bells or noise makers that they sounded enthusiastically. The game soon proved to be a blowout, with the German players scoring goal after easy goal against our young team. With each new goal, the parents around me made an enormous ruckus, shouting and ringing bells. And with each goal, I got progressively more angry. You’d think they would tone it down a bit after 3 or 4 goals, but no. If anything, the cheering got louder. I think the final score was 8-0. I left the field as quickly as possible, passing in front of the crowds in the bleachers to get to the exit. I have never been so tempted to flip the bird to a whole crowd of people. I mean, they didn’t even earn the win. They imported it!

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I stormed away, glowering. My middle son was only a freshman at the time, and he was in tears when he arrived back at the car. And here’s the icing on the cake. That day also happened to be his birthday. We were leaving straight from the game to go celebrate together with the family.

So, why did I take offense at those parents? Why couldn’t I calmly explain to myself that no players were harmed in that game, only their egos? Why couldn’t I just say, “You do you,” and put on a placid smile as I made my way back to the car? I’ll tell you why. I was feeling my sons’ feelings. I felt their humiliation and defeat all throughout that game, long before I ever saw their faces up close. We feel our children’s emotions so acutely it is like they are an emotional extension of ourselves. I was angry because I felt those parents were hurting someone I loved.

Differentiation is the Key

The closer we are to someone, the more emotion we give and take from them. A sort of unconscious interchange happens somewhere between us. Husbands and wives, mothers and children, teammates, board members—we all participate in emotional processes that profoundly impact one another. So how do we access our best thinking when feelings are running high? How do we reason with our own emotions? I’ve written a number of articles this summer about the emotional processes of families and other groups. I’ve tried to explain how it happens and why it happens. Recognizing the emotional processes that play out in relationships is a good start. But recognizing the processes is not enough. How do we:

• Ground the anxious emotional current running through our system?

• Enter into conscientious conflict when we need to stand by our conviction?

• Adopt flexibility when we want to tell someone off?

• Stay connected when it feels like the pressure is unbearable?

Differentiation is the quality of being able to distinguish thought from feeling, and self from others. It’s the key to being yourself. It’s a lot like integrity, but a bit more specific. I like to think of differentiation as being a sovereign state, but in the realm of emotions. Let’s run with that a minute, just for the sake of illustration.

Google tells me that the following aspects characterize a sovereign state:

Let’s take those one by one, and consider how they relate to the idea of differentiation.

How to Be Yourself

Permanent population: I am my own permanent population. I inhabit my own territory. I can stay in my own skin and recognize the limits of my own experience. I cannot vacate my own body, or expatriate my memory or experiences. I can be myself, and be no one else.

Independent Government: I govern myself. I do not rely on others to govern my thoughts or feelings. I recognize and employ my own moral agency.

Foreign Relations: I have the power to enter into agreements or disagreements with others. My thoughts and feelings are not subject to another state. They are all my own. And last but not least, my favorite—

Defined Territory: I know where my sovereign self begins and ends. The borders of my emotional jurisdiction are clearly marked and I control the flow of what comes in and out.

When we carefully consider the meaning of integrity, we notice the same ideas. The Oxford dictionary presents this as one of its definitions:

Wholeness: The state of being whole and undivided. Ex: “upholding territorial integrity and national sovereignty”

Even the word integrity points to the connection between moral character and a solid, sovereign self with well-defined borders. Differentiation and integrity both require a deep understanding of ourselves as individuals, different and distinct from those around us. Whatever your political persuasion, open borders are not a good policy for emotional health or moral integrity.

So how do we grow our differentiation? How do you be yourself?

Mind the Gap

Beginning to recognize the patterns playing out below the surface is a good start to differentiation. But, as I said before, knowing is not enough. So how do we close the gap between what we know and how we operate?

Muscles are grown when they are tested. Either we pick up a heavier weight or we put in more reps. But we have to test those muscles to grow them.

Knowledge is grown when it is tested. Research shows that retrieving information for a test is key for information to move from short-term memory to long-term knowledge.

Differentiation is grown when it is tested. When we experience a high-pressure situation, we understand it as a real opportunity to grow in differentiation and integrity.

If we can engage some emotional border control, and recognize what belongs to us and what does not, we grow our differentiation like a muscle. Every time we use it, it grows ever-so-slightly stronger. We gradually narrow the gap between what we know and how we function. Sometimes minding the gap means we spot the emotional process thirty minutes later, instead of two days later. We won’t always be able to process it in real time and respond to the circumstances with integrity and differentiation. Often we react almost instantaneously to the currents running through our relationships. But there’s an enormous difference between thirty minutes and two days, because we can course-correct so much sooner.

When my sons played that soccer game and I was so disgusted with the other parents in the bleachers, I did have a few moments to course-correct before my boys got back to the car. In that time, I was able to calm myself, and reflect on what sort of mother I wanted to be. If I had entered into their emotional process or continued to adopt their emotions as my own, I would not have been useful to them. I realized that I needed to become a sovereign state, and not reflect or deflect back to them the big emotions they were experiencing.

Differentiation doesn’t mean I can’t respond. I respond with care and integrity, carefully monitoring my own emotional borders. In that moment, I didn’t dismiss their experience of the game. But I also didn’t meet them with tears of my own, or recount to them my anger at the other parents. Instead, I made an effort to ground the emotional current running through our little family system. As a parent, I was able to absorb and neutralize some of those big feelings, simply by staying connected and showing I cared. As I exercised differentiation, my calm grew contagious. My steady response was part of what allowed them to let go of the bitter loss. That, and a juicy hamburger.

If something in this newsletter resonates with you, or if you have any questions or follow-ups, hit the reply button and tell me! I’d love to hear from you, and I respond to every message.

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Hi there! I’m Michal, and I’m here building a community for women who want to understand the invisible patterns shaping their relationships—and begin to interrupt those patterns in positive ways.

This is the second in a 2-part series about anxious togetherness. Here is part 1:

One day I was taking a walk in our neighborhood with my two young boys. Walking along, we noticed a strange humming noise that seemed to be coming from behind one house. We ventured down the alleyway, looking around carefully. The noise was coming from a small tree in the house’s backyard. We stood there watching it closely from a distance of about 20 feet. After staring for a minute, I realized we were looking at a vibrating swarm of honeybees. Something had disturbed a nearby colony, and they had left their home and settled temporarily in this tree.

I did some searching, and found the number of a local beekeeper. If a beekeeper can carefully scoop and re-home a swarm of honeybees, it’s a lucky break for both the bees and the keeper. They get a new colony for free, and the bees get a new home. The wild bees don’t always cooperate, though.

Bees swarm for a number of reasons. Sometimes a hive has grown too large and it’s time to divide. So the presiding queen and about half her colony leave to establish a new colony elsewhere. The rest of the colony sticks around in the old, well-established hive and a new queen is hatched. Other times, bees swarm because something is not right. Perhaps the hive has bad ventilation. Maybe there is sickness or a parasite has invaded. When this happens, the entire colony leaves the hive behind, looking for a better home. Basically, conditions become unhealthy, anxiety in the hive increases, and a swarm leaves the hive.

When a swarm of bees lands in a tree like the one we saw, they are temporarily homeless, waiting for scout bees to go find a good location for a new hive. Scouts fly around and look for the best spot, and then return and communicate the location. Other scouts then go and visit the prospective site, and if they think it’s good, they spread the word. Believe it or not, the bees then conduct some sort of vote on the proposed locations and reach consensus to select the best one. Then the swarm moves into their new digs.

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Last week I illustrated the idea of anxious togetherness by telling a story about group pressure opposing change. But today I’d like to talk about how it can go the opposite way, too. Groups can turn up the pressure in order to produce change. Sometimes, like honeybees, we swarm en masse. Someone or something announces it’s time for a change. The anxiety increases, and the hum of the hive begins to get louder. Often, the change is necessary.

Eight ways we pressure each other to get with the program:

When change is approaching and anxiety is high, how do we pressure others? How do they pressure us?

• One way anxious togetherness surfaces is when we pressure others to either join the new cause, or get out of the way. Groups are naturally resistant to change, but resistance isn’t necessarily unfounded. Sometimes, a bit of friction helps us refine an idea or plan so that it has a better chance of success.

• Silencing disagreement: We shut down discussion because we’re afraid that any conflict will lead to damage we can’t contain. Or because we’re determined to preserve our own conception of the group. (ie, “we’ve always been a close-knit family” or “we’re pretty easy-going around here…” “we’re drama-free…” or “our board values harmony…”) Sometimes we just want to push things through quickly with no opposition so we can get back to baseline stability.

• Recruitment: recruiting others to our cause so we can add more names (especially influential players) to our team roster. Casting vision is not a problem. But we shouldn’t mistake a listening ear or a sympathetic nod for a pledge of support. And we shouldn’t use one person’s name to lend more credibility to a cause that they didn’t know they were committing to. Example: “I was talking to John yesterday and we’re both concerned about the direction this is heading. We think it’s time for an overhaul…”

• Faking unanimity: all real process goes on behind closed doors with a small group of core people, so that we can present a unified front to the rest of the group.

• Forcing participation: Planning and communicating things in such a way that there is no way for others to opt out. Example: “we’re planning a birthday dinner for Dad, but the date is super flexible. What’s a good weekend for you?”

  

• The Royal We: We pressure buy-in by implying, “this only works if everyone participates. If you don’t do your part, everyone else suffers.” We decide what and how everyone must tow the party line, or help with the group project, or rally around the family member. Example: “We all know things have been tough for Aunt Betty ever since Uncle George died so we’re all going to pitch in and pay off her credit card debt.”

• For or against: we paint the scenarios in black and white, implying that if someone isn’t fully aligned with us, they are working against us.

• Questioning commitment: We subtly (or not-so-subtly) question someone’s loyalty or dedication to the group if they don’t meet our expectations, or if they show commitment to another group. Example: “I can’t make it home for Thanksgiving this year. Rob and I are going to visit his parents.” Response: “Oh, I didn’t realize you were so close to them.”

When the noise increases in our hive, we all sense that a change is coming. The change may be necessary for growth or for the health and safety of the colony. But can we keep our wits about us and make the right change? Can we approach the transition with courage and integrity, instead of reactivity?

It can be frustrating to read a list of “what not to do.” But this list can help us recognize when pressure is up, and enable us to respond instead of react. Bowen theory teaches us to accept the fact that much of the emotional process within a group can’t be controlled. There’s no magic word to catalyze the hive or to calm it back down. But whether we’re a scout bee or just a worker bee, we can still influence what we can’t control. Anxiety spreads, but so does calm. As Rabbi Edwin Friedman said, any member of the hive can “lead” the emotional process if they can “be separate while still remaining connected, and therefore can maintain a modifying, non-anxious, and sometimes challenging presence.”

Just like the bees, sometimes we have to move out of the old space before we know where we’re going to land. We might end up swarming in limbo for a little while. When that happens, we can up our tolerance for uncertainty while scouting out new possibilities. We have to resist the temptation to short-circuit the process by pushing for an unearned consensus. It’s uncomfortable. We feel exposed. But if we stay calm and trust the scouting process, we can help lead the way to a new space with better ventilation and a solidarity earned by sticking it out together.

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To read more about how to stay calm in an anxious system, read here:

If something in this newsletter resonates with you, or if you have any questions or follow-ups, hit the reply button and tell me! I’d love to hear from you, and I respond to every message.

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Hi there! I’m Michal, and I’m here building a community for women who want to understand the invisible patterns shaping their relationships—and begin to interrupt those patterns in positive ways.

Eleven years ago, Ben and I rocked the boat. Here’s the story…

A new charter school opened in our community, and we decided it sounded like a good fit for our two oldest boys. The charter school wasn’t the only new school in town, though. Several of our closest friends had recently come to gether and founded another fledgling school. Previously, our sons had attended that school. Now you understand the tricky situation we were in?

If you had asked any of us if our friendship was built on our shared principles of elementary education, we would have laughed. And yet, our friendship was being tested, in some small measure, by our decision to send our kids to a different school. Founding a new institution requires a great deal of commitment and courage. And these friends had banded together and made personal sacrifices to start a school together. Ben and I had not been on that original team, but they were counting on the support of other families to share in their vision and help it reach critical mass. They were counting on us. So when we jumped ship, it must have felt like a slap in the face.

Anxious Togetherness

Bowen Theory has a term to describe this dynamic: anxious togetherness. When a family, church or team is anxious, it pulls together to establish stability and consensus. There are a number of things that can up the anxiety in a group of people. Two things that increase pressure the most are big changes and big ventures (think long-term investments like founding a school!). Our friends were putting it all on the line to establish that school, and that certainly increased the pressure for alignment in our circle of friends. And it increased our desire to anxiously defend ourselves for our decision, or to put some distance between ourselves and the people who seemed to take offense.

When anxiety is high, we see things in black and white. And groups are no different. Either you’re for us, or you’re against us. If people aren’t certain which shared beliefs or principles are central to the system, they tend to conform in superficial ways. That is, we major in the minors and minor in the majors. We can’t distinguish which things are essential to the team’s goals (or the family’s identity), and which things are trivial. So we adopt the most visible markers to signal unity and loyalty.

The Cost of Belonging

So why do we give and receive the pressure for togetherness? Shouldn’t we just stand firm and not care what other people think of us and our decisions? Nah, we all care. And we should care. There’s a reason we’re afraid of rejection. Whatever the group is, we’re relying on it for something: friendship, support, a salary, childcare, community… we are hardwired to live and work in connection with others. This isn’t just a matter of preference. It’s a basic need.

But that care should lead to a thoughtful response, not an anxious reaction. Usually, our reaction is automatic and driven by emotion. We go into auto-pilot (ie, accommodation, distance, or conflict), instead of carefully considering how to steady ourselves and thoughtfully decide how to respond, or whether to respond.

New parents are prime candidates for anxious togetherness. When you have your first baby, you are determined to make all the right decisions. You feel that somehow your approach to sleeping, eating, and nurturing might make or break that baby. You think the stakes are so high. This is why it’s so reassuring to hang out with people who have landed on the same side of these issues. Moms might become fast friends simply because they use the same brand of baby carrier. They also might have a falling out over sleep training.

Back to School

Fortunately for us, our friends are not Mean Girls, so we all weathered the storm just fine. These friendships are still strong today. In fact, Ben and I have now had kids in both schools for seven years.

In our case, we care what these friends think of us because we are raising families together. We attend the same church. We share meals, childcare, carpool–even vacations, sometimes. We would have lost something tangible and irreplaceable by alienating these friends. So it isn’t so simple as standing on our principles, us against the world. But we did need to do what was right for us, and not just stay loyal to the group at the expense of our family’s needs. So what happens when we rock the boat?

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The Risks

An anxious group might actually oust you for breaking some unspoken rule. You might get unfriended, pushed out, rejected. That’s a scary prospect. But usually, it’s more subtle than that. A bit of distance grows between the parties. A distinct cooling takes place. Certain topics become off limits. People talk about each other instead of talking to each other. Assumptions are made. Judgments are pronounced. Those are the possible costs.

But what do you stand to gain if you see it through, without growing reactive to the pressure you’re feeling? Here’s what can happen:

The Benefits

One surprising outcome when we decide to diverge from the path of sameness is: nothing happens. Sometimes, we expect the sky to fall and it just doesn’t. Turns out, we can’t tell the future. And nobody cares much about our nonconformity. Maybe those perceived expectations were just that–perceived. Here are some other possibilities:

The group finds that it can’t rely on superficial sameness to establish unity, so it has to get clear on what it cares about. I’m not saying that the company or the committee or the friend group gathers round and drafts some kind of purpose statement. But the group might level up over time as a result of your decision to mix things up a bit. It might discover it has a lot more important things to connect over (more important than whether we sleep train our babies or not, for example).

Your decision to mix things up a bit will create space for others to do the same. Now, in one sense, that’s a part of why your decision was seen as a threat in the first place. If you jump ship, no telling what others might do! But if you find your courage and do what is right, you might create a release valve for the pressure in the system. Others may let out a big sigh of relief, and dabble in a little nonconformity of their own. You pave the way for differentiation and freedom of conscience–and, dare I say, a bit of healthy experimentation. Because, if we’re honest with ourselves, a lot of life is just trying things to see what works. And that includes education. And certainly sleep training.

Last but not least, your decision to do something different grows your own integrity. You chose to exercise your agency muscle. And the next time you feel a lot of pressure from others to decide something based on their expectations instead of your own conviction, you’ll have a little more integrity (and faith!) to see it through.

What does healthy connection look like?

Healthy connection means that we know what holds us together, and it isn’t the dumb stuff. We can handle being connected to people who do things very differently from us, because different views and different practices are not a threat. We don’t have to pretend sameness for the sake of unity. We can get curious about other people’s decisions, and engage others with thoughtful questions instead of quiet accusations. We can talk about the ways we are different instead of carefully sidestepping any topic that brings those differences into the light.

Over time, this grows relationships and systems that are clear on their values and are supportive instead of reactive. We can tolerate differences because it isn’t scary to see someone doing something differently. We can see someone reject our way of doing something without taking it as a betrayal. And we can make a decision that is best for ourselves without needing everyone else to agree with us or validate us.

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Hi there! I’m Michal, and I’m here building a community for women who want to understand the invisible patterns shaping their relationships—and begin to interrupt those patterns in positive ways.

When my friends and I talk about the nature of overfunctioning, there is one metaphor that we return to again and again: The brake pedal. It pops up in discussions about marriage, ministry, workplace dynamics. But the easiest place to see it is in parenting. So let’s start there.

Imagine, for a moment, that you are in the passenger seat of your car. In the driver’s seat is your teenage son. Imagine this teenage son is a second-born. You know the type—leap first, look later. This son’s frontal lobe is not yet fully developed. This son’s pain tolerance is very high. This son doesn’t even know where his own arm ends, much less the rear bumper of the car.

Now, imagine you have your own brake pedal. Just like a professional driving instructor, you can brake whenever you need to. If you’re a mother with a strong will to live, you might find yourself braking a lot. In fact, you might realize that you are riding the brake all the time—just a little continuous pressure on that brake pedal to be sure things don’t get out of hand.

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But what will happen the first time your son gets in a car without the benefit of your brakework? He’s going to drive much faster than he realizes, and he’s going to brake much slower than he needs to. Because you’ve been quietly riding the brake during all those practice sessions, he won’t know his own power, or the real stakes of the game.

This is precisely how we get off the rails in parenting. We think that we’re helping our kids, keeping them safe, keeping ourselves safe. But we’re interfering in the learning process over and over. It’s good intentions gone awry. We think we can teach a kid everything they need for adulthood with no risk. But that’s not how learning works. That’s not how skill or maturity are built. There have to be real stakes, real consequences. Otherwise, there will be no real rewards.

Some of you might be a bit demoralized right now. “If only my kid needed a brake pedal! The problem with mine is we’re not going anywhere!” Well, my fellow parent, have I got a metaphor for you! Enter, stage right: the gas pedal.

If your kid seems like a non-starter, ask yourself: have you been riding a gas pedal from the passenger seat? Are you going to make sure he travels from point A to point B regardless of what his own feet are doing? Then all of us parents are wrestling with the same problem! We’ve got to stop it with the fancy footwork. Overfunctioning can go either direction: either I am providing the momentum, or I am limiting the risk.

Outsourcing Agency

When my own oldest son was navigating the college application process, things were growing increasingly strained in our home. It took me several months to spot the pattern that we were stuck in. But once I saw it, I was ready for a major shift. Here’s what had happened: my son had outsourced his worrying to me. He was genuinely untroubled about application deadlines, scholarships, the FAFSA, essay prompts, or housing options. He had outsourced all of those details to the resident detail-facilitator. He knew I wouldn’t let him forget the important stuff or skip the necessary steps.

It took me by surprise when I finally spotted the pattern. All through high school, I had been very hands off–especially with schoolwork and grades. But when it came to college prep, I started riding that gas pedal hard. I fell into the very trap that I had successfully avoided in the years leading up to it.

Therapists, counselors and coaches all have a core rule: You can’t care more than the client [or athlete]. Parents, pay attention. If we care more about our teen’s future plans than they do, then they’ve outsourced their agency to us. We have to figure out how to lay that down, even if they don’t pick it up right away.

Because, here’s the thing: if I’ve been riding the gas pedal for all of those “driver-in-training” months (years, really), when I take my foot off the gas, that vehicle will slow to a snail’s pace. Or, on the other hand, if you have a kid who rushes full force into any endeavor without considering the cost, that vehicle is going to be FLYING at break-neck speed for a bit. That kid is going to run some red lights, for sure. But this is why it’s so important that we let our kids experience real risk, real stakes, before they reach the teen years. Otherwise, by the time they are driving (and making big decisions that will impact them years into the future), they won’t be familiar with the weight of responsibility that those stakes require. And if they’ve never experienced real-world consequences, they’ve never experienced real-world rewards, either. So at the crucial moment, they experience neither the carrot nor the stick.

Once I spotted the pattern we were stuck in, I did my best to stop pressing the gas pedal. It wasn’t a one-and-done transfer. But I put the burden of responsibility back where it belonged. And I resisted the urge to keep accelerating for him. I made it clear that we have high expectations, high standards, but it’s his life to live.

It still isn’t exactly clear to me how this launch process is supposed to work. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from Bowen theory, it’s that there are no quick fixes or formulas to follow. My son and I were both active participants in that pattern. It served his purposes well to be scattered and half-hearted in the process, because then when something turned out poorly, he could tell himself he hadn’t wanted it anyway, it was just something his mother was making him do. It served my purposes well to be over-involved in the process, because it was a good outlet for my anxious energy, produced by my concern about his future.

As parents, it’s difficult to sit in the passenger’s seat. We’re used to being in the driver’s seat. But it’s also an exciting transition when we consider how our job is changing. As the driving instructor, we have a front-row seat as they transform from children into adults. We put in long hours with them, watching vigilantly to be sure they’re prepared. We choose the practice streets and we drill certain skills. But ultimately, we step out of the vehicle, and they set their destination.

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Hi there! I’m Michal, and I’m here building a community for women who want to understand the invisible patterns shaping their relationships. We’re here to help one another interrupt the negative patterns in positive ways.

Some time ago, my child asked for advice about friendship. “Ya see, I have this friend…” This friend was acting clingy, and it was making my child feel a little claustrophobic. “This kid is literally following me around. I want to stay friends, but she’s driving me crazy.”

In relationships, this pattern is called anxious pursuit, and anxious withdrawal. One person desires more connection than the other person, who feels they need a bit more space. So person 1 takes one step closer. Person 2 takes one step back. Person 1 notices the distance (“why are you so far away?”) and takes another step forward. Person 2 takes another step back. Before you know it, this relationship is in perpetual motion, with Person 1 just trying to connect and Person 2 feeling they have nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. What starts as a basic personality difference can quickly develop into an emotional crisis. One person feels deserted, the other feels smothered.

Sometimes, two people have different thresholds for closeness. Think about the way that cultures have different norms for how close to stand to another person in conversation. Argentina, Italy, and Turkey are examples of high contact cultures. Argentinians stand about 2.5 feet away when talking to another person. On the other end, people in China and Japan like to keep a good distance between themselves and the person they are talking to. That means that Argentinians are likely to breach a Japanese person’s personal bubble without intending to.

That doesn’t make one person needy and one person closed off. It just means they have a different standard for what is normal or desirable. The mismatch becomes a problem when it takes on an anxious vibe. We fear that another person’s connection might compromise our autonomy. Or we fear that if we allow some silence or space in the relationship, the other person might forget we exist. But this pattern pops up in relationships that are valued by both people. Mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, friends and coworkers all fall into this pattern.

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When my husband lost his office job in 2020, he got a new position working from home. Like the rest of the world, we were navigating life during an epidemic with social distancing, quarantines, and all that entailed. But on top of the anxious withdrawal baked into our lives, we were also navigating lots and lots of closeness with one another. Between the two of us, I’m more oriented toward connection. I’m an extrovert, I’m a woman, I talk a lot, I’m conflict-forward, it’s a package deal. My husband is an introvert. But suddenly, he was home all the time. He would appear in the kitchen mid-morning for a second cup of coffee, and pause for a moment to tell me a funny story, or explain a project he was working on. I found myself tapping impatiently as he related something interesting. I realized that the connectivity was a bit more than I was prepared for. In the past, connection mostly happened on my terms. But now it felt like my husband was intruding on my turf. After a few weeks, I told him that I have chunks of the day where I need to not be interrupted. He didn’t take it personally, because he feels the same way about his own work. After that, we settled into the new rhythm smoothly.

But I think this is a challenge that many work-from-home couples encounter, and they don’t recognize how much friction it is causing. The same thing happens when couples retire. They have to renegotiate all these aspects of the connection. I recently saw this video of a Korean man giving other men marriage advice for the retirement transition. It hilariously illustrates the tensions we encounter at these life transitions:

There’s nothing wrong with being the person who initiates or maintains the connection. We might reach out to a friend for some advice, validation, or consensus. That’s a big part of relationship. We all need that. But if someone seems to be keeping us at arm’s length, we should remember that their desire for space does not mean they are rejecting us. If you are always initiating or pursuing, you might be accidentally activating an instinct for self-preservation in the other person. And if you are always pulling back, you might be activating the other person’s instinct to bridge the gap. Remember how that relationship seesaw works?

How do we interrupt the pattern? Here are some ideas to spark your creativity if you’re the hunted one:

• Talk about it directly. “Seems like you want more contact, but I feel a bit overwhelmed. Can you give me some space, and let me do the reaching out next time?” And then follow through! Make the phone call, approach the friend at church, text him that funny meme, ask her to lunch.

• Beat them to it. Spot that kid at school, greet him before he greets you. Call your mom at an odd time when she hasn’t called you. Invite your baby sister to watch a movie with you, instead of making her ask to be allowed to watch it with you.

• Initiate connection within a bounded timeframe. “I have a few minutes in the car on the way to the gym so I called to tell you this funny story.” Go sit next to that kid at lunch. You know when lunch period ends, so you know you can’t get stuck.

• Reassure them. Make it clear that the relationship is important to you, even if you approach things differently. Remember, the more you withdraw, the more they pursue.

Some things to try if you’re the eager beaver:

• Talk about it directly: “Seems like I’ve been doing most of the connecting lately, and you seem a little distant. Do you need some time and space?”

• Tone it down: Instead of greeting that person first, give them time to greet you, reach out, or ask a follow-up question.

• Branch out: If you’re eager to connect, find someone else to connect with. Everywhere, there are lonely people and new people and strange, awesome people who want more connection. Find them.

• Wait it out. Set a time frame for yourself, and don’t contact the person for that period. Two days? Two weeks? Two months? Not to be vindictive or to prove a point. But to give them the chance to remember why they want to connect with you. How can they miss you when you never go away?

• Beat them to it: End the conversation or phone call or text convo before you normally would. Make sure you’re not milking them dry. Be the first to say goodbye, let the texting taper off without sending the final text.

Results may vary, and there is no formula for fixing this. But I hope these suggestions help you brainstorm some strategies of your own. Try something besides your normal reaction. Then give it time. It usually takes longer than we want for the seesaw to run out of momentum. And that’s ok. In the meantime, focus on how you want to show up in that relationship regardless of the other person’s response.

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This is Part 3 in a 3-part series about oveerfunctioning. Find the other parts in the series here:
Part 1: Overfunctioners and Underfunctioners
Part 2: Overfunctioner: the Origin Story
Part 3: The Hidden Cost of Overfunctioning

When my dad was a kid, his father was a Christian writer and speaker. My grandfather would travel the country, comforting and counseling people who were hurting. His life experience made him a credible counselor—he and my grandmother had lost three children at various ages to leukemia, hemophilia and one tragic accident.

No one wants to be an expert in grief and suffering. But my grandfather spoke with love and conviction about God’s sovereignty in life and death. His compassion for these men and women who came to him was real—their tears were often met with tears of his own. He mourned with those who mourned, giving himself to this ministry. Sadly, though, he didn’t have much left when he returned home. His own wife and kids needed him to be emotionally available as they walked their own dark path of grief. He could bear the grief of perfect strangers, but not his very own.

The hidden cost of over-functioning is scrambled priorities. There are rings of responsibility in our lives. I know my own family is my primary responsibility–but sometimes I go about doing spiritual triage, forgetting that my life is not an emergency room. Nor is it a walk-in clinic, where people are treated on a first-come, first-serve basis. We all know this. But in practice, and especially in Christian ministry, these priorities easily get all mixed up. When we’re over-involved in someone else’s life, our own duties always suffer.

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Avoidance

Unlike God, our resources are limited. If we spend the bulk of our time and energy on our secondary responsibilities, we inevitably come up short for the people and the responsibilities closest to us. Sadly, that’s often the point. We use other people’s problems as a convenient distraction from the areas in our own lives that are screaming for attention. It’s like we are emotionally farsighted—we’re great at seeing and solving other peoples’ problems But everything looks fuzzy when it’s right under our nose.

This warning is nothing new. Mother Theresa famously said, “If you want to change the world, go home and love your family.” One of Jordan Peterson’s best-known quotes says, “If you can’t even clean up your own room, who the hell are you to give advice to the world?” But we’re so good at ignoring our own bedrooms. Consider the following questions:

• If I am perpetually available to listen and troubleshoot a friend’s marriage woes, could I perhaps be avoiding the work required in my own marriage?

• If I am tireless in my service to my church family, am I neglecting the work of my own home?

• If I am a culture warrior on twitter, am I impotent in my own community?

• If I am an influencer on instagram, am I powerless to influence my own husband and kids?

In Mark 7:11, Jesus condemns the religious leaders of his time for encouraging a practice called Corban. Corban was a practice of pledging money or property to God, and in doing so making it off-limits for ordinary use. Jews were using this rule to exempt themselves from providing for their own parents. Basically, they looked extra holy for giving money to the temple, but they did it at the expense of their primary responsibility—caring for their own parents and children. It’s easy to excuse ourselves for being unavailable to those closest to us when we feel that we’re doing extra credit for God. As the saying goes, “the shoemaker’s children run barefoot.”

But when our priorities are ordered correctly, our work will be most effective. If we want God to use our work to make a lasting impact, we must always begin in the right place: our own marriages, our own children, our own families, our own churches, our own communities—in that order. Think of Jesus stating that his first priority was to the lost sheep of Israel. If we order our priorities properly, all our other work is doubly effective. We invite God’s blessing and He “establishes for us the work of our hands.”

When my grandfather was growing old, and my own father was entering pastoral ministry, he gave him this charge:

”Don’t sacrifice your family on the altar of your own ministry.”

I suspect my grandfather was keenly aware of his own shortcoming as a husband and father during those years of grief. So he exhorted his son to break the pattern. My dad heeded his father’s advice, and now I have the privilege of a better pattern to follow. I’m committed to giving my first and best to my own family. From there, I hope and pray that God extends my ministry to bless others, further out. But the work I do begins first in my own heart and home.

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Hi there! I’m Michal, and I’m here building a community for women who want to understand the invisible patterns shaping their relationships—and begin to interrupt those patterns in positive ways.

This is Part 2 in a 3-part series about overfunctioning. Find the other parts in the series here:
Part 1: Overfunctioners and Underfunctioners
Part 2: Overfunctioner: the Origin Story
Part 3: The Hidden Cost of Overfunctioning

Let’s talk about muscles. You know I love a good fitness metaphor.

Muscle compensation happens when secondary or dominant muscles take over for a weak or injured muscle. The dynamic keeps our bodies in motion, but leads to bad consequences in the long term. The dominant muscle keeps volunteering to do the work of the weak muscle. Eventually, the whole system is out of whack because we’ve adopted movement patterns that avoid stressing the weak muscle. We “favor” the weak muscle by keeping it weak.

In order to fix the problem, we have to learn to re-engage the muscles that are responsible for that movement. But ask any physical therapist—the hardest part is training those compensating muscles to stop being the hero and doing the work of the other muscle. The overfunctioning muscles won’t stay in their lane.

A weak muscle can’t be isolated and “worked on.” We can’t pull it out, put it on an elliptical and tell it we’ll see it in two weeks. Because all our muscles work together, we can’t target one muscle and only one muscle.

Our families work a lot like our bodies. We can’t make a project of one particular person without addressing the way the whole system works together. If one person is a chronic underfunctioner, they haven’t adopted that role in a vacuum. They’ve had lots of help underfunctioning. And just like the muscle can’t be isolated, the “problem person” can’t be isolated either. We have to tinker with our relationship patterns to get that weak muscle or family member “firing” again. Because, let’s be honest, they’re only one part of the problem. So How does it begin?

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By Crisis:

So how does the dynamic begin in the first place? Sometimes, it begins with a crisis. A family member may suffer a loss, injury, or illness. When a person gets hurt, we all come together to do that person’s work so they can focus on healing. And that’s just as it should be. But what happens when that helping becomes an ingrained pattern? The underfunctioner doesn’t recover. They just get weaker, and everyone else compensates more, making more excuses for them. Usually it’s well-intentioned. Everyone wants to be a hero in that person’s recovery story. Nobody wants to see the hurting person experience more pain.

By a Thousand Cuts:

Sometimes, the dynamic begins so quietly that nobody could say when it started. Like a river that begins as a thousand tiny drips trickling down a ravine, the overfunctioning/underfunctioning pattern can’t be traced to one moment. Here are some snapshots that might get you thinking about your own relationships:

• A father worries that his son isn’t measuring up to his potential at school. So he decides to give him a nudge. A suggestion. A reminder. Appropriate help soon escalates, and the son begins outsourcing his agency.

• A young mother lacks confidence and doesn’t trust her own thinking. So she asks for advice from an over-eager friend. She follows formulas and scripts, but nothing produces the results she was promised.

• A young man just out of college seems to be drifting a bit, uncertain about what comes next. His big sister gets very anxious about his uncertainty. Big sister begins to form contingency plans for her brother’s stalled career.

• A teen girl feels sorry for her classmate with poor social skills. So she takes the other girl on as her pet project, trying to make friends for her on her behalf.

• A counselor feels it’s too slow, inefficient, dangerous, or painful to let her client go through the slow process of growing in maturity. So she feeds her client the answers instead of helping her engage her own thinking. At first there’s some superficial growth—which reflects really well on the counselor—but a year later there’s no lasting change.

• A father doesn’t know how to maintain relationships with his children as they leave the home. So he outsources the work of relationship to his wife. All communication between father and children now passes through her.

By Role Reversal:

Sometimes, the dynamic begins when an overfunctioner reaches a breaking point and reverts to an underfunctioner. Burn-out, sickness, and moral failure can all be the breaking point that puts them out of commission. Once they’re taken out of the game, it comes as a relief. The illness (mental, physical or spiritual) is debilitating. But the only thing worse than staying sick would be to go back to their prior way of life, and the expectations that come with it. The people around them who relied on them for strength, conviction, and help are now left with a void to fill. And soon the overfunctioner has been replaced by one or two new ones. The former overfunctioner unconsciously embraces their identity as the mess-up, and their body plays along. Their illness serves as the “Get Out of Jail Free” card for the anxiety that first prompted their overfunctioning, then triggered their underfunctioning. The new overfunctioner who rises to the occasion finds a great deal of fulfillment in being the new hero that holds everything together. That is, until the process repeats itself.

This happens a lot in marriages. One spouse overfunctions until they can’t continue. Then they get sick, shut down, or crash out. The other spouse steps up to bat, and the cycle continues. Sometimes it’s in all of life, sometimes it’s just in one area. Take, for example, a difficult child. One parent takes on the difficult child until they can no longer bear it. Then they distance themselves and the other spouse becomes the primary parent “dealing with” the problem child.

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By Underdevelopment

Sometimes, the dynamic begins because one person really is stronger, more experienced and more privileged. The other person is weaker, with fewer advantages in life. The dynamic begins innocently enough. The overfunctioner understands that “to whom much is given, much will be required.” (Luke 12:48) So he lends a helping hand to the underprivileged friend or family member. Where the relationship goes off the rails is when the “stronger” member relates to the “weaker” member as a victim of circumstances, as less capable and less discerning (in regard to his own life!), as uniquely dysfunctional or spiritually handicapped in some way. Like the dominant muscle compensating for the weak muscle, the overfunctioner swoops in to solve the problems encountered by the underfunctioner. The overfunctioner fails to notice that he is undermining the growth and maturity of the weaker brother by bolstering, advising, encouraging, rescuing, and mediating. He thinks that perhaps with just a bit more help, that weaker brother might level up. He fails to notice an unhealthy dependence being forged. He fails to see that his own identity is wrapped up in rescuing. He forgets that helping can hurt. Jesus said, “Whoever does not carry their cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.” (Luke 14:27)

Those are four common origin stories to the overfunction/underfunction pattern. And I can see myself in both sides of each one! Both roles stem from spiritual pride. In overfunctioning, we think that we are the primary means of grace in someone else’s life. In underfunctioning, we think that God has not provided sufficiently for the responsibility He gave us. It’s hard to accept the idea that helping doesn’t always help. But learning to recognizing the pattern sets us free from the crushing weight of overfunctioning, and from the bitter disappointment of underfunctioning.

If pride is the source of this dangerous pattern, then humility is the cure. Jesus is the sacrificial Lamb. We are not. We can take radical responsibility for our own calling and relinquish control of the things that aren’t ours to carry. We can believe that Christ spoke the truth when He said, “my yoke is easy and my burden light” (Matthew 11:30). We can take Him at his word that whatever He has set before us, He created and equipped each of us for our own work which “God prepared in advance for us to do.” (Ephesians 2:10)

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Hi there! I’m Michal the Girl, a not-therapist who has been helped enormously by learning about relationship systems. Now I’m out here writing for other normal people like me! At Half-Baked Bowen, I share how these ideas can help you create space for real growth in your life, especially in the relationships where you feel stuck.

This is Part 1 in a 3-part series about overfunctioning. Find the other parts in the series here:
Part 1: Overfunctioners and Underfunctioners
Part 2: Overfunctioner: the Origin Story
Part 3: The Hidden Cost of Overfunctioning

My husband and I used to trade cars every weekend. He did the school carpool, so he drove the SUV on weekdays. On the weekends, I tended to haul more children and gear around. So we would trade, and I would drive the SUV and he would drive the small car. Monday morning we would switch again.

During this arrangement, my husband made a habit of filling the tank of the SUV during the week and filling the tank of the small car each weekend. As a result, I went months without ever going to a gas station. It was wonderful. I loved it. But occasionally our routine would be interrupted. One week, I was on a road trip and suddenly, my gas light came on. Or at least it seemed sudden. Of course, there was nothing sudden about it. There’s a clear indicator on the dashboard that was informing me for the entire drive exactly how much gas I had left. I had run the car down to the dregs without once glancing at my gas gauge. Unfortunately, I was now on a stretch of road with no gas stations. I frantically searched for the nearest place to fill up. Twenty-five minutes later, I pulled into a gas station, running on fumes and prayers.

After that, I knew something had to change. I didn’t want to end up stranded on the side of a highway. I had two choices. Either I would carefully maintain my cushy position as a “woman who doesn’t frequent gas stations” and sacrifice a whole lot of autonomy. Or I would go back to being a responsible adult driver and fill my tank often enough that I wouldn’t forget what a gas gauge was.

In the last few weeks, I’ve written about three response patterns that appear when we feel relationship pressure. Now I’m going to move on to describe three macro-patterns that emerge in nearly every important relationship. But these patterns can’t always be observed in a single conversation, the way distance, accommodation and conflict can. These macro-patterns emerge when we zoom out to study the bigger picture. Taken together, the smaller interactions reveal anxious patterns in our families, teams, and friendships. Let’s dive into the first pattern: overfunctioning and underfunctioning.

Defining the Pattern

Overfunctioning is a pattern where one person in a system takes responsibility that doesn’t belong to them to relieve their own anxiety. Underfunctioning is where one person invites another to rescue them from responsibility in order to avoid the discomfort of slow growth. In the story above, I managed to underfunction without my husband overfunctioning for me. Or rather, I saw myself slipping into a bad pattern and changed things up. But the real macro-pattern always comes as a complete set. An underfunctioner requires an overfunctioner, and vice versa. It is a joint endeavor that keeps fusion intact.

When I nearly ran out of gas on the side of the highway, I realized that I was underfunctioning. I was allowing someone else’s responsibility and courtesy to replace my own. I share this funny example of my own underfunctioning for a good reason: it’s harmless. Nobody will think that I’m saying that men shouldn’t fill their wives’ gas tanks. I don’t want the real concept to get lost in translation. Before we go any further, I want to state clearly: this is not about division of labor. This is not about men’s roles and women’s roles. This is not about whether your teen does their own laundry or not. If we get into the particulars of who does what for whom, the concept loses its value. Let’s not get caught in the weeds. So, with that caveat in place, here we go.

There are three mistakes we often make when we see a pattern of overfunctioning and underfunctioning. The first mistake we make is to think that the problem started with the underfunctioner’s immaturity.

Mistake #1: The Underfunctioner is the Problem

It all begins with the question of who is at fault. We tend to think that when one person is taking more than their fair share of the work or responsibility, and another person is not pulling their weight, that the problem lies with the underfunctioner. The thinking goes, “Since the underfunctioner wasn’t doing their part, the overfunctioner had no choice but to start compensating.” The truth is that either person might gently put the seesaw into motion, but it requires both players to keep it moving. To illustrate the idea that the overfunctioner can set the seesaw into play, let’s begin with the area of parenting.

If a parent does their child’s difficult math homework for them, we understand that the parent is making a choice. The parent has taken the easy path by doing something tedious. It is easier for the parent to do the math homework than to require the child to do the math homework. Doing the homework is easier than letting the child experience the consequences of leaving it undone. None of us will applaud the parent for doing the homework. We understand that the hard homework they did was simple avoidance of the *harder* thing they are morally obligated to do—ie, to parent.

And yet, if you’re a parent with any self-awareness, you find yourself wrestling with this sort of question all the time. Children are growing and changing day by day, and we have to constantly evaluate when to step in and help, when to require them to ask for help, when to make the job easier, and when to do a job for them. For me, overfunctioning as a mother might look like:

• Resolving a dispute between siblings

• Reminding, reminding, reminding (don’t forget your lunch! Don’t forget to study! Don’t forget to do your chore!)

• Rationalizing with my child to sweep away their disappointment

• Managing play dates to be sure that no one ever feels left out.

• Searching for my child’s missing shoes, jacket, hat, wallet, phone.

The tricky part is that none of these things is wrong to do. They are all just a normal part of motherhood. It requires a great deal of discernment to recognize when to do the thing, and when to let the child grow up a bit by *not* doing the thing. But one thing’s for sure, if the child grows into an adult without the necessary skills for navigating life’s challenges, we understand that the parents have failed to do their job, and it was the parent’s responsibility to guard against the overfunctioning temptation.

Mistake #2: The Underfunctioner Benefits from the Arrangement

We also understand from this example that the child does not come out on top. If a parent “snowplowed” every obstacle or distressing situation out of their child’s path, then the child is left handicapped. The child has never had to manage their own disappointment, navigate a tricky conversation with a friend, advocate for themselves with a teacher, go to school even though they’re not feeling their best, or go hungry at lunchtime because they forgot their lunchbox. The overfunctioning parent mistakes the grade for the education. They think that the A in math is proof of a job well done, forgetting that the child has none of the necessary skills to get the next A in life. We all tend to forget that our children’s growth and maturity depends entirely on their ability to navigate challenges without our help.

Mistake #3: The Overfunctioner Suffers from the Arrangement

The third mistake we make is to think that the overfunctioner suffers from the arrangement. On the one hand, yes, everyone suffers from the overfunction/underfunction pattern. But in another sense, the overfunctioner participates for their own benefit. The overfunctioning parent is not a victim of their child’s laziness or immaturity. They have a choice. If a parent didn’t gain something from doing their child’s homework, they wouldn’t do it. What’s in it for them? Avoidance. Control. Distraction. Control. Identity. And did I mention control?

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I’ll never forget the time I was talking to a group of teen girls about the challenges we parents face as they grow into adults. I wanted to help them understand how inadequate we feel, and how this is a learning process for us, too. I asked,

“What do you think your parents are afraid of, as you get ready to leave home?”

The first young woman responded with the obvious answer, the one I was fishing for: “Maybe they’re afraid that we will need their help, and they won’t be present to help us. Or they’re afraid they haven’t completely prepared us for life’s challenges.”

I nodded. Then a second young woman spoke up:

“Maybe they’re afraid that we won’t need their help. And they don’t know what to do with that.”

I was thunderstruck by her answer. I had never thought of it that way, but I knew instantly that she was right. Somewhere deep down, we are afraid that our children won’t need us any more. If the relationship is no longer built on a perpetual need for help in navigating life’s challenges, we’re afraid that there will be no relationship left. Perhaps this is the only way we know how to relate to our children—in their need, and in our mission to help them.

If I’m not a devoted mother, what kind of mother can I even be? We have to consider that question carefully, or we will fall into the trap of subtly undermining their attempts to grow up and take responsibility. We cultivate their need for us, even while playing the martyr and bemoaning our child’s immaturity. We perpetuate the pattern because without it, we don’t know who we are.

The point isn’t that everyone should be autonomous, never needing the help of others. The point is that in order for children to grow into adults, we parents have to manage our own anxiety and resist the urge to snowplow difficulties for them. We get that. But it’s harder to see that pattern in other types of relationships. In the next few posts, I’ll explore how this pattern plays out in other systems like marriages, workplaces and churches.

It takes two people to keep a seesaw in motion. But either person can step off the seesaw and stop the up-and-down, when they see their own role in the pattern. That’s why it’s so worthwhile to learn about this pattern and reflect on where it might be inhibiting growth—in you and the people you love.

Hi there! I’m Michal the Girl, a not-therapist who has been helped enormously by learning about relationship systems. Now I’m out here writing for other normal people like me! At Half-Baked Bowen, I share how these ideas can help you create space for real growth in your life, especially in the relationships where you feel stuck.

When my cousin was young, he climbed way high up in a pine tree beside my grandparents’ summer home. As he climbed, my aunt stood nearby, fretting. She called out, “ok kiddo, don’t you think you’ve climbed high enough?” My grandmother was quietly standing nearby, watching. She looked at my aunt and said, “Laura, if you don’t want to watch him climb the tree, then go inside.”

My grandmother was teaching my aunt that she needed to manage her own anxiety if she wanted this little boy to grow into a man. The way to keep him from danger was not to anxiously monitor him or to try to transmit her feelings to him. My grandmother was instructing my aunt to manage her anxiety with a bit of well-placed distance. Now, you may agree or disagree. Depends on the height of the tree, right? But the principle remains.

If accommodation is where I manage my anxiety by agreeing, and conflict is where I manage my anxiety by disagreeing, then distance is where I manage my anxiety by withdrawing. Distance and accommodation are both strategies of avoidance—opting out of the difficult work of responsible relating.

At its worst, distance tears families apart and robs us of our sense of identity, eroding the connection that makes family life so beautiful. At its best, distance creates space for new relationship patterns to emerge and for family members to level up their differentiation and personal responsibility.

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The Dark Side of Distance

So how does distance play out in our lives? During the Covid-19 crisis, the 6-foot rule and social distancing were meant to keep us from transmitting a virus from one person to the next. In the same way, emotionally distancing is meant to keep anxiety or pressure from spreading from you to me. Like a virus sweeping through a family, anxiety and pressure are contagious.

Estrangement is a society-wide epidemic right now. It is distance taken to the extreme, a sort of mega-distance or emotional quarantine. If I can’t tolerate any communication or proximity with a particular person without absorbing their anxiety, then going no-contact is the only solution left. But remember, if proximity is that dangerous to me, then that only means I have a compromised immune system. I don’t mean to say that the other person isn’t contagious. But immunity can be built!

On the other hand, micro-distance is a well-worn tool we reach for every day. Distance might be in play when I:

• Zone out

• Check my phone

• Leave the room

• Sidestep a topic

• Work late

• Avoid eye contact

• Withdraw into a book

• Pop my earbuds in

Great grief! I hear you say. If those qualify as distancing, then we’re all cooked. Hold on, hear me out. Just like Conscientious Conflict and Appropriate Accommodation, I believe that distance can and should be used as a tool in our relationships. I’ll call that Desirable Distance. But before we talk about how to use that tool, we need to talk about responsibility.

Let’s Talk About Responsibility

Normally, distance is a refusal to enter in and take responsibility for something that is mine. The problem is that we are terrible at judging what is genuinely our responsibility, especially in the realm of emotions. We’re not responsible for other people’s emotions. But we might be responsible for the thing causing those emotions. We’re not responsible for other peoples’ opinions. But sometimes we’re responsible for informing those opinions.

Walking away from a pan-handler without giving them money is not bad distancing. But ignoring my mom’s phone call might be. And this is exactly why these patterns are so difficult to understand. What is an appropriate use of distance? It all depends on where I draw the lines of relational responsibility. If the distance is an attempt to close my heart to someone else, an anxious withdrawal motivated by self-protection, then it benefits no one, least of all me.

Normal distancing is when I try to make myself invulnerable to pressure or pain. But in doing so, I am refusing to take responsibility for my own growth. Rather than growing to be able to stand firm under the pressure of another’s emotions, I have to withdraw to prioritize my own safety and sanity. I cannot tolerate the discomfort of being present with someone else who is in distress. I cannot tolerate the humility of allowing someone else to see my pain. So I opt out. I walk away. I make myself an island, never realizing that the distance response is only another anxious reaction.

If distance is my default mode, then I am communicating to those around me that nothing matters. Nothing is worth the Big Spend of my emotional involvement. But if I make myself emotionally unavailable for the negative emotions, for the hard times, for the bad pressure, then I am unwittingly opting out for the good parts too.

When distance is my default, I’m opting out of growth because I need my emotional safety buffer in place.

Three Good Uses for Desirable Distance

Can distance be used in a positive way? What are the hallmarks of desirable distance? Bowen theory teaches that my best defense for contagious anxiety is to strengthen my own immune system rather than placing myself in isolation. Even distance can be a growth tool, though. Just as rest days are a key element of a good fitness plan, distance can be a healthy pause before returning to the good work of relationship. So if we’re working toward emotional fitness, when should we implement a rest day? How do we distinguish desirable distance from destructive distance?

1. Overuse

Like rest days, distance is necessary after a time of intense overuse. Distance is a natural response for everyone after a period of lots of togetherness. When my family has been on a road trip together, it’s only natural that the first day at home, everyone sort of disappears into a bedroom, a book, or a basketball game for a while. It’s a natural response to retreat for a bit, for the sake of our own sanity. So much togetherness creates a lot of memories and also calls for a bit of recovery distance. Desirable Distance is a good tool when we use it as a pause to rest, recenter ourselves, and then re-engage.

2. Injury

If I’ve strained a muscle or injured a joint, rest allows me to recuperate and heal. But if I haven’t been in the habit of exercising, I mistake the discomfort of growth (ie, sore muscles after a challenging workout) with the pain of injury. When we are caught in a conflict with someone we love (think of this as an intense weightlifting session), a bounded pause is a great tool. I can take a break from the disagreement, but it’s best if I can state exactly when I will be ready to get back to work.

My friend’s husband gives every newlywed couple the same piece of advice: “Never argue after midnight.” We all get tired and irrational and lose sight of what we’re trying to accomplish (if we ever knew in the first place). We have to know when to call it quits, albeit temporarily. My husband and I could have avoided many hours of agony if we had known and followed this advice. Instead, we tried to follow another well-meaning piece of advice for newlyweds: “Never let the sun go down on your anger.” When I laughingly told this to my friend and her husband, he retorted, “The problem is, you already did let the sun go down on your anger—four hours earlier!” He’s right, and we’re still learning best practices. So much better to say, “Let’s agree to circle back to this after we’ve both slept and eaten.”

3. Gym Supervisor

If I find that I can’t stop supervising someone else’s workout, maybe I need to put some distance between myself and them. If I can’t manage my own anxiety about someone else’s life decisions or mental health, it’s time for some distance. If I can’t resist the urge to be checking on them, monitoring them or advising them, I should take myself off to a different gym. Desirable distance enables me to stop anxiously monitoring someone else. It creates space for us to relate to one another differently. My aunt might have been able to stay outside and quietly enjoy watching her son climb a tree. But like my aunt watching her son climb, I can go into hyper-vigilant mode and try to make someone else feel the urgency of their own situation. Better to give them some space. Then I can stay connected but stop watching their every move. I can ask fewer questions, introduce a different topic of conversation, or tell them I know they’re fully capable of whatever life throws at them.

I’ll leave you with some wise words from John Donne:

No man is an island,

Entire of itself;

Every man is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

If a clod be washed away by the sea,

Europe is the less,

As well as if a promontory were:

As well as if a manor of thy friend’s

Or of thine own were.

Any man’s death diminishes me,

Because I am involved in mankind.

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

It tolls for thee.

-John Donne, 1624

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I distinctly remember the year we crossed that bridge in the middle of an intense thunderstorm. Traffic was moving somewhat slowly because of the rain coming down in sheets. I could feel the bridge swaying back and forth in the wind and the rain. I was terrified. I thought that we were all going to die.

What I didn’t understand was that the movement of the bridge in the storm is a feature, not a bug. The suspension bridge is designed to respond to the elements with flexibility instead of rigidity. The flexibility makes it stronger and more able to withstand force. Its anchors don’t move—the ground it stands on is stationary. But the cables allow the suspended center of the bridge to bend without breaking. I didn’t need to be afraid. But by now, you may have gathered that flexibility has never come easily to me.

It’s not as hard to see the benefits of flexibility as it is to see the benefits of conflict. When I accommodate, others like it! I am bending to their preference, their principle, their expertise. But what is the inherent risk in accommodating? What does it look like to use accommodation as a principled pattern? I’m going to call the good use of accommodation Appropriate Agreement.

The Risk of Flexibility

Why does flexibility feel dangerous to me? Why does it make me anxious to bend or sway? I think there are a few reasons. Last week we discussed flexibility as a picture of accommodation. But on the surface, flexibility isn’t easily distinguished from hyper-mobility. Hyper-mobility means that instead of appropriately stretchy muscles, the connective tissues or ligaments are too loose. Hypermobility is a structural problem that leads to injury and pain. Flexibility, on the other hand, prevents injury and stiff joints.

I fear that I will easily lose myself and my principles if I choose flexibility. I fear that a suspension bridge bending and swaying indicates that its ends are not firmly anchored to land. I fear that a storm will bend it to the point of breaking, and it will collapse into the raging river. Some might say that the key is to understand which issues are principles that shouldn’t be compromised, and which are preferences that can be up for constant negotiation. But is there any risk to always giving way in the territory of preference? I think there is. When I am too accommodating, I silently store up resentment as I deny the good desires God placed inside of me. There’s a sort of accommodation and self-denial that lies about God by acting like we are on a fixed emotional budget that allows for no desire, no wonder and no delight.

I also fear that when others see me being agreeable, they will take advantage of my flexibility and continue to exert more and more pressure on me to bend to their will. I fear I will lose the organizing structure of my ideas and my character if I allow myself to be constantly bent and stretched and nudged. I fear being controlled by other people’s preferences instead of my own. I fear becoming like a bathing suit 3 summers old—the stretch is all gone, the color is faded, and the elastic is shot.

The Beauty of Appropriate Agreement

So what does Appropriate Agreement look like in real life, used as a relationship tool? I think the key to using Appropriate Agreement with integrity is about the same as using Conscientious Conflict. What makes agreement poison us slowly is insincerity, coercion, and a victim mentality. If I try to accommodate others this time so they will accommodate me next time, that leads to a brittle relationship. Agreement can’t be transactional because there are no guarantees that the other person will reciprocate. If I try to accommodate others to avoid friction in the relationship, they still sense that I am exerting control. I’m controlling the situation to maintain my own safety. I’m bending in the wrong places.

If that’s what makes agreement dangerous, what’s the opposite? The key to Appropriate Agreement is to recognize that I am choosing agreement. If I think that I have no choice in a situation but to go along with the other person’s wishes, then I have lost track of my own agency somewhere along the way. But when I choose Appropriate Agreement, I choose to bend to someone else’s will. I choose it because I believe I will grow through the process. I choose it because it will benefit the family, the system, the group in some way that is more significant than what I choose to give up. When strength is also at disposal, when Conscientious Conflict is also in my toolbox, then bending and swaying is no longer a harrowing experience.

If I can relinquish control of the other people involved, then I don’t expect a particular outcome. I let someone else take the lead and I step into the role of best supporting actor, highlighting the lead’s strength or vision instead of my own. The beautiful paradox of control is its inverse relationship to influence. The less we try to control a relationship, the more influence we gain. If I am firmly anchored to bedrock, then Appropriate Agreement is a powerful tool. I can accomplish far more by respecting other people’s autonomy and employing the right kind of flexibility than I ever could with coercion, avoidance, or superficial peace-keeping.

As a kid, I bitterly resented having been born into a time when all the world had already been mapped. Why couldn’t I have been born in the Age of Exploration? Sure, I knew that space was the final frontier. But exploring planets or stars never captured my imagination the same way. I wanted to explore places that had plants, animals and people. Space exploration didn’t seem like it would yield much along those lines.

The closest I ever got to real exploring was in video games. Remember that old computer game Myst? As a 90s kid, I loved walking the paths to see what I would find behind a door, around a bend in the trail. Many video games provide an incomplete map, but only reveal the areas as they are explored. The unexplored areas remain blacked out or fuzzy. We don’t know the lay of the land until we’ve ventured into the unknown.

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Here Be Dragons

In maps drawn before 1492, mapmakers supplied their own ideas about what lay out past the edges. Dragons and sea monsters often decorated the unknown spaces. Just like those old mapmakers, I draw my own maps of life and relationships. Some areas tend to be shrouded in mist, and I avoid them carefully, observing the warnings that “here be dragons.”

Of the three main relationship patterns that I’ve written about, conflict is probably the easiest to identify. Conflict happens at a particular time and place in a way that accommodation and distance often don’t. You can pinpoint a rupture, even if you can’t identify everything that led up to it. It’s noisy. It’s disruptive. It brings yelling, insults, yucky words and an aftertaste of regret. It’s not hard to see the destructive side of conflict.

So if conflict is that ugly, why would I practice using it?

I’d like to argue for a more neutral definition of conflict. One idea that bumps around a lot in Bowen Theory is that patterns aren’t good or bad. They just are. Conflict is a tool that can and should be used responsibly. Let’s call this Conscientious Conflict. Conflict doesn’t have to begin and end with a loud rupture. Before conflict comes difference. If we notice a difference of opinion, we can welcome that difference. We can explore that different way of looking at things. Sometimes, the difference will escalate into a disagreement. But not always. Sometimes the disagreement will escalate into an argument or a fight. But not always.

When I am conflict-averse, I order my conversations around avoiding a rupture with others. I put out feelers to know what might rub someone wrong, what might bring a difference of opinion into the spotlight, what might make someone else feel bad or mad. I anticipate conflict long before it has erupted, and I prevent, prevent, prevent. But in order to prevent what might grow to conflict, I also prevent a lot that might not have escalated into conflict. I spend a lot of energy predicting the future. But predictions prioritizing safety have to be broad, and are often wrong.

Recently, my aunt was on a long flight, crossing the country for a family vacation. She briefly assessed the young man in the aisle seat beside her, wearing earphones. She assumed they wouldn’t have much to talk about, so she didn’t try. Toward the end of the flight, though, he removed his earphones and she changed her mind. Within moments, she discovered that they had a lot in common—cancer slowly taking the life of a daughter (in her case) and a sister (in his case). In a moment more, she discovered that they both shared a hope of seeing these loved ones again in Heaven.

When my aunt told me this story, we both reflected on the ways that we jump to conclusions about the people around us. We notice ourselves doing it to strangers, judging or stereotyping them based on superficial observations. But I wonder if we do it even more (and unconsciously) with our loved ones. We practice a sort of fortune-telling, thinking we can predict the future. But what happens if I resist the lure of already knowing? When I venture into the unmapped areas of my relationships, it takes courage. Instead of assuming I already know what someone else will think, say, or do, I become an explorer.

Conscientious Conflict also brings my own internal geography into high definition. Being forthright about what I think is sort of like uncovering the “fog of war” in games like Legend of Zelda. We might think we know what the geography is like, out past the edges. But until we venture into that area of potential disagreement, the map is blacked out. We have to actually go there to reveal the terrain, understand the lay of the land. It feels dangerous because “Here be dragons.” Distance and accommodation both tend to be strategies of avoidance. So why venture into the unknown if the most likely outcome is an encounter with a dragon?

Why Encounter a Dragon?

Conscientious Conflict is good for relationship systems—teams, families, and any other group with a common goal. At its best, Conflict brings differences out into the open so we can clarify the issue at hand… and ideally, resolve it. The hope is that the best conclusion rises to the top when everyone’s ideas have to interact with one another. When the opinions of each person bump into the others, new solutions emerge that are stronger, more stable, and advance our common goals. And even if a conflict doesn’t resolve in consensus or a clear way forward, there’s another good outcome to aim for. Conflict puts everyone’s opinions in the laundry where they tumble around for a bit. The hope is that everyone’s opinions have shrunk a bit by the time the wash and dry cycle is over.

Conscientious Conflict is also good for the individual. Conflict forces me to articulate my position. Articulating a position requires careful thought. It requires noticing the weak points in my own ideas, and encountering the strong points in someone else’s. When we let our differences emerge into the open, we can distinguish between areas where we need to reach consensus, and areas where diversity strengthens our ecosystem. Conscientious conflict helps us distinguish principles from preferences.

So how do I use Conscientious Conflict? The most important principle is to understand that the only person I can control is myself. There are no ground rules that I can enforce on the other person. I can’t force compliance, consensus, or even engagement. The only outcome I can guarantee is my own continued growth. And the only resolution I can ensure is my own integrity and differentiation.

He that complies against his will

is of his own opinion still

-from Samuel Butler’s Hudibras, 1678k

If I approach disagreement with my own growth as the goal, then I can venture into the unknown like the explorers I used to envy. I can be curious about the other person’s position, instead of assuming I already know what dragons and other dangers lurk there. I can gather more information and change my own position based on what I’ve learned. I will usually learn more about the other people involved. I will always learn more about myself.

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Hi there! I’m Michal, and I’m here building a community for women who want to understand the invisible patterns shaping their relationships—and begin to interrupt those patterns in positive ways.

In December, I turned forty. Soon after, I signed up for a new exercise program. The program trains for mobility. The exercises are developed to help me move freely, keep my balance and prevent injury in my real life. I hope it will keep me doing the sorts of things I really do every day—walking on uneven ground, leaning over to pick up a heavy box, or longboarding around my neighborhood. As I enter my forties, I can’t take movement for granted. I have to work to maintain a level of fitness that came naturally when I was younger.

In one exercise video, the trainer demonstrates a deceptively simple exercise with a dumbbell, explaining as she goes, “If you are very strong, but not flexible, the added weight will stretch the muscles in your back so that you can extend further and increase your range of motion. If, however, you are flexible but not strong, the added weight will strengthen the muscles of your back instead of just stretching them.”

That explanation got me thinking—what happens when I focus on one kind of fitness at the expense of another? What if I stretch daily but never do strength training, or vice versa? Is there a parallel risk in relationships?

The Weight Lifters

People who are assertive and stubborn don’t cave to pressure easily. Let’s call them weight lifters. In relationships, I’m a weight lifter. From a young age, I seemed strong because I had strong opinions and I was good at articulating them. I can’t be bullied into pretending I have one opinion when in fact I think very differently. Weight lifters have big muscles and can bear a good deal of pressure without giving way. Someone pushes, and they push back with the same amount of force exerted on them—sometimes more!

What happens if I build muscle without stretching those muscles? I lose mobility. I’m at risk for stupid injuries because my muscles can’t extend easily. My range of motion decreases steadily.

In the same way, if I operate like a weight lifter in my relationships, I lose range of motion. When pressure mounts, I manage my anxiety by pushing back. Relationship weight-lifters are the embodiment of Newton’ Third Law of Motion: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. I can’t engage my best thinking and reconsider my position. I can’t give way to someone else’s preference or expertise— I value rigidity over flexibility. When I detect pressure, I shift into combat mode. It’s a knee-jerk reaction to maintain control of myself and gain control over others. I interpret flexibility as weakness.

The Yogis

Some people are much more accommodating in relationship. All their training goes toward flexibility— they give way when someone pushes. Let’s think of these people as the yogis. If someone requests or expects something of them, they can bend to meet that expectation. If they feel pressure in a relationship, they manage the pressure by adapting to be or do what the other person expects. They can bend and bend and bend without breaking.

What happens if I prioritize flexibility without ever strength training? I can adapt but never resist. I cannot stand my ground because there’s no muscle. Hypermobility—or over-flexibility— might sound like a super-power, but it causes joint instability and can result in chronic pain.

In the same way, if I default to accommodating others, I respond to pressure in a relationship by giving way to the other person. The threat of conflict is perceived as a danger. I manage my anxiety about the pressure by bending. But that bending does cause pain and instability. Giving way too easily means that the other person never benefits by hearing my point of view. When I give way to someone else against my better judgment, I am storing up resentment like chronic pain. I maintain control of my environment by vigilantly eliminating friction of any kind.

The Nappers

For the sake of the metaphor, let’s add in a third category: rest day. For fitness, it’s best to allow a period of rest between intensive workouts. Many trainers advise building in a rest day. When we rest, we avoid strenuous activity to give our bodies time to recover. Some people treat every little ache like a broken bone. They immobilize the joint. They rest up. Let’s call these people the nappers. They know instinctively that overuse and overextension lead to stupid injuries. They don’t know that underuse does the same thing. In relationships, the nappers respond to pressure by defaulting to distance. They avoid the topic or the person. They protect themselves by resting up. They avoid strain and think that the relationship problem will resolve itself.

What happens if I prioritize rest over exercise? Rest day only works for fitness if it’s spaced between workouts. Rest day can’t be my go-to strategy for fitness. If I think immobilization is the key to fitness, I’m trading acute pain for chronic pain.

In the same way, giving space can’t be the knee-jerk reaction any time pressure mounts in a relationship. Sure, the pressure might dissipate with some distance and rest. But when rest and distance are the default, we’re not growing any muscle or flexibility. Nappers don’t trust that their relationship muscles were made to be used and stretched. They think the only safe route is rest. They aren’t looking for growth and transformation. They won’t stand up, they won’t be flexible. They just disengage and hope the mess disappears while they’re napping. They attempt to control others by keeping them at a distance, where they can’t do much harm. They attempt to control themselves by disengaging before they say something they might regret.

Relationship Mobility

When strength, flexibility and rest are applied appropriately, we are able to live life fully without limiting our movement. We don’t have to avoid certain positions or activities to prevent injury. We move freely and can fully engage in whatever work or sport or hobby we choose. We train using all three principles, knowing that real-life mobility requires us to pivot quickly from one to the other.

As I enter my forties, it’s important to me that I don’t just age—I mature. I can, as Jenny Brown says, make a project of myself instead of making a project of the people around me. I can work toward fitness and mobility instead of limiting my activities to prevent injury. I can develop the relationship skills of strength, flexibility and rest, and apply them appropriately. When I feel pressure mounting, I am aware that all three tools are available to me. Which tool does this circumstance call for—careful conflict, accommodation, or distance? Next time, we’ll discuss how to engage our core and operate out of integrity.

This post is the first in a 4-part series about relationship patterns. To read more about conflict, agreement and distance, click below:

Part 2:

Part 3:

Part 4:

It’s enchanting to watch a huge group of people with a shared identity celebrate their heritage and root for their team. The drum beat connects every heart in that sea of red, and they move as one. We know instinctively that it is wonderful to belong. Sharing work, sharing celebrations, sharing traditions and milestones—that’s a big part of what makes family life wonderful. When people feel disconnected from their family, they look for some other tribe to belong to.

Bowen theory teaches that relationship pressure exists along a continuum. At one end of that continuum is the need for connection, and at the other end is the need for independence or autonomy. We all yearn for connection with other people. We understand that connection is critical. Society is built on the understanding that together we have a much better chance of survival. God created us to form families, communities, and nations. These systems exist for connection, coordination and cooperation.

At the opposite end lies autonomy. As Americans, we place an emphasis on rugged individualism. We value independence more than most, and it is knit into the dna of our country. Our forefathers were drawn to a land of liberty. A big part of our shared identity is that emphasis on individuality. That’s a bit of a paradox. But it’s one thing that makes the USA so wonderful.

It isn’t just us Americans who want autonomy, though. Everyone craves freedom. We value our own thoughts and feelings, our own self-determination. We value privacy and liberty. When we feel too much connection or pressure from a system, it begins to feel invasive or coercive. So we instinctively pull back or push away.

A central idea of Bowen theory is differentiation. Bowen theory defines differentiation as the ability to hold onto your convictions and engage your best thinking while staying connected to your system. It’s like that grounding prong in an electrical outlet. It’s the ability to discharge anxiety without passing it along to the next person. When I am functioning with emotional and spiritual maturity, I can distinguish between thoughts and feelings. I can engage a healthy pause before responding, instead of the instantaneous reaction to pressure.

Three Patterns: Pick Your Poison

When a person or a system exerts pressure on me, there are three main options I can choose from: accommodation, conflict, or distance. These responses are usually automatic. I don’t carefully weigh the pros and cons of each response. My face usually betrays my decision before I’ve fully processed the situation. My response is usually the product of anxious reactivity. In that moment, I feel the good of connection turning to coercion.

1. Conflict

Most of us have a favorite response to pressure. I conveniently believe that my favorite pattern—conflict—is the most mature of the options. By choosing conflict, I believe myself to be standing on principle, and putting the other person in their place. My coercion alarm is a wee bit over-sensitive. If I feel like someone is trying to control me, I shoot first and ask questions later. My coercion alarm is even more sensitive when a third person is involved. If I suspect that someone is taking advantage of someone else, I like to charge in like John Wayne with guns blazing. What this situation (and every other situation) calls for is decisive action. Sure, I might look stubborn and selfish to you. But believe me, I’m a Viking hero!

2. Accommodation

For others, accommodation is a well-worn path. They, too, see themselves as the most mature party. They can sacrifice their own needs and desires for the greater good. By meeting the expectations of those around them and not rocking the boat, they think they are resisting the siren call of anxiety. How can anxiety get the upper hand if you eliminate friction at every turn? They are the helpers, the peace-makers, the ones who find common cause. Accommodators believe that they can hold everything and everyone together by being generally agreeable. They don’t realize that accommodation is often just quiet resentment and deferred conflict.

3. Distance

When we feel pressure, our options look binary—either I do what you want (accommodation) or I do what I want (which brings conflict). But there are ninjas that walk among us, and manage to mostly avoid accommodation or conflict. They, too, mistake their chosen pattern for maturity. These people specialize in distance. When they feel the pressure in the system, they respond by unplugging. They think they are immune to anxiety because they don’t revert to victimhood or violence. They walk the high road, and look down on the rest of us from above. They can’t be coerced, and they can’t be drawn into a fight. They are stable, non-reactive. But what if distance *is* a reaction?

These three patterns show up over and over in the way we relate to each other. And even though we might have a favorite pattern, most of us employ each of them at different times. But if these aren’t the answer, then what is the real path of maturity?

It’s me, hi.

Maturity starts when I observe myself employing my favorite pattern, and recognize the ways that I am feeding the monster. It isn’t everyone else.

It’s me, hi, I’m the problem— it’s me.

But wait—I have some good news. The real path of maturity sometimes requires employing some familiar tools: conflict, accommodation, and distance. Even these can be good tools when we use them properly.

For everything (turn, turn, turn)

There’s a time to accommodate, to defer to someone else’s wishes, to go along for the ride. For me, that’s an anxiety-inducing proposal. It makes me feel vulnerable, even unsafe. But can I tolerate my own anxiety long enough to consider if someone else might be right? Or that their way of doing something might be just as good as mine? Or that doing something the best way is not the most important thing? Can I entertain the thought that I am not the resident expert? I can consciously choose to accommodate the other person because I believe it to be the right response.

There’s a time for distance. I can unplug for a little while and excuse myself from an environment that feels like a pressure cooker. It might be that I’m in someone else’s pressure cooker, and there isn’t much I can do to ground their current. It might be that I need some time to withdraw and consider what is the right course of action. It might be that a little bit of distance is just what everyone needs. There’s a reason time-out exists for children. We can even place ourselves in the penalty box, and let people know we need some space to regroup. As long as it is a thoughtful response employed temporarily, distance is an excellent tool.

There’s a time for conflict. I can stand my ground and carefully state my convictions, even if it causes sparks to fly. Sometimes conflict is good and necessary. It clarifies what is important. When we are willing to brave the reactions of others, sometimes we are pleasantly surprised by the outcome. Maybe standing our ground doesn’t cause the conflict we were bracing ourselves for. Maybe others are emboldened by hearing us thoughtfully articulate what we think is right and true. But it must be handled with care. When conflict is welcomed as a test of our conviction and courage, it can be a help to everyone in the family system.

There are other tools in the relationship toolbox. But we can begin by recognizing these common patterns in ourselves, and learn to employ them responsibly. That’s where the magic begins. Like the Norway fans doing the Viking Row, we can connect for fun and fandom.

Relate responsibly, everyone!

I was snorkeling off the coast of Moalboal, a small diving town in the Philippines. Usually, you have to be scuba-diving to experience the incredible spectacle of a school of sardines. But there is this one spot in Moalboal where I was told I could swim around the point and swim with the sardines. I swam down as far as I could, and there they were: thousands of tiny fish swimming as one body. Then they would all turn at the same moment in the same direction with exact precision. The light reflected off their turning bodies in flashes of brilliance. It was much like a murmuration of starlings in the sky, but with one difference. This time I was a part of the magic, right in the center of the sardines, feeling them against my body, and wildly conducting the orchestra of movement. I couldn’t get enough of it. I swam down into the middle of them, again and again.

When I got back to the dive shop, the shop owners looked at me with alarm. 

“What did you do?” they asked.

”I swam with the sardines!” I said, elated.

”But your eyes! You have mask squeeze! You have to equalize the pressure in your mask. Didn’t you know that?”

Nope, I didn’t know. I was oblivious to everything but the sardines. And now I would pay the price—every person who made eye contact with me for the next two weeks gasped in horror. I had broken so many blood vessels in my eyes that one of them had no white at all. But the beautiful spectacle of the sardines moving in a perfectly synchronized dance made me forget everything else.

We are all part of the school

Bowen Theory teaches that relationship systems operate like schools of sardines, or like living organisms. Businesses, churches, friend groups and especially families are relationship systems that move as one. Our lives are closely intertwined, and we respond and react to one another in automatic ways. When one family member hurts, that hurt radiates out to everyone else. When one member rejoices or grows or succeeds, that ripples out too. I like to think about it like a human body. The Bible tells us that the Church functions like a human body, with various body parts carrying out different functions, and needing one another to operate. To understand Bowen theory, let’s carry that metaphor one step further. 

At times, a stomach bug will hit our family and the kids will succumb to it, one by one. I brace myself, knowing I’ve been exposed to the virus, nervously waiting for the sickness to strike. But often, I don’t catch the virus. For some reason, I’m not susceptible. I’m healthy—well-rested, eating well, exercising, soaking up the sunshine—and I can hold a sick kid and not catch the sickness. I’m practically bullet-proof. 

Other times, it’s like my body is looking for an excuse—any excuse—to shut down. I haven’t spent time in a sick house, I haven’t hugged or kissed any feverish kids. And yet, I’m laid flat. Last summer I caught a cold and I just couldn’t kick it. There came a day when I couldn’t walk up a long flight of stairs without stopping to rest midway, and I realized, this is no ordinary cold. The cold had developed into pneumonia and it took two rounds of antibiotics to kick it. 

Just like our bodies, our families are complex. There are so many factors that contribute to our body’s health or sickness. And families can be bullet-proof, or they can let the common cold develop into pneumonia. If my body has a base level of healthy immunity, I’m not very susceptible to sickness or disease. If my family has a base level of health, it’s not very susceptible to emotional sickness or crisis.

Families have an anxiety level

In Bowen Theory, that base level of health is discussed in terms of anxiety level. Much like inflammation in the body, anxiety level in a family determines for the most part how it responds to a challenge. If a system is highly anxious, even if all that anxiety is rippling beneath the surface, the system does not respond well to challenges. 

Challenges to our family systems can come in many forms. Change is always a challenge—even good change! A new baby, a job promotion, a move to a larger house… all of these require major adjustments to the way the family operates. We are usually unprepared for the level of friction that comes along with good changes. 

Then there are other challenges, more obviously difficult: a serious illness or death, a car accident, academic struggle, a mental health crisis, a conflict between siblings, loss of income. Some families weather these challenges well, working together to support one another and adjust to the new normal. Other families flounder for months and years after an incident that seemed trivial. Why, though? 

Just like my body was susceptible to a common cold turning to pneumonia, sometimes our families are very susceptible to a threat. The high anxiety level of a family can cause it to react to even small threats by going haywire. Sometimes, a number of challenges or transitions all happening in quick succession make even the strongest family respond with a full meltdown. 

Bowen theory describes a number of factors that characterize a family’s anxiety level. But for now, let’s focus on this one idea: 

Anxious systems are highly reactive

Emotional anxiety ripples through the anxious family like an electric current. It’s nearly instantaneous. One person is distressed, and that distress runs the circuit of the family like a strike of lightning, before anyone is aware of what is happening. Family members react in different ways, but in an anxious system, those reactions are unconscious and automatic. Some members withdraw to insulate themselves from the distress. Other connections erupt into conflict. Still others feel the distress of the original sufferer acutely, accommodating the hurt party to try to relieve the pain, no matter the cost. 

When feelings start doing the thinking

Whatever our individual default mode is, we are reacting at an emotional level. We feel first, then think. And then the feelings determine the thinking in ways that we can’t recognize. Even our rational thoughts are just a product of how we feel about the situation. We can’t step back from the system to see what is happening. Our feelings determine our reaction, even if we can rationalize exactly why we had to react the way we did. 

Instead of just focusing on individuals and their particular strengths and weaknesses, Bowen Theory helps us recognize patterns of anxiety within a larger relationship system, and how we are prone to catch that anxiety. Once we learn those patterns, we can begin to respond more slowly and thoughtfully to challenges and threats. We can work within our own families to lower the anxiety level and up our immunity. We can experiment with different responses and see what happens. 

Install a three-prong outlet

Then when crisis hits, the whole system is stronger and can fight off the virus. Or when emotional distress hits the family like a surge of electricity, we’ve been working on ourselves and taking responsibility for our own emotions. Even if we’re not at the source of the surge, we can offer protection. We’re like an emotional surge protector. Or think of it this way: we’re two-prong outlets being upgraded to 3-prong outlets. Instead of just having two slots, one for receiving electrical current and one for passing it along, we now have a third option: grounding. If there is too much anxiety in the system, we can ground the excess, sending it out of the system. But that only works if we’re not automatically passing along everything sent our way. When a crisis hits, we can’t ground that anxiety unless we’ve already installed a 3-prong outlet. And unlike outlets, we have to practice with that third prong before it is functional. We can’t ground anyone else’s anxiety if we haven’t been grounding our own. 

As much as I loved watching the incredible dance of those sardines, I want my family to operate with a little less synchronicity and a lot more thoughtfulness. Over the coming weeks, we’ll discuss how to slow down our reactions, and I’ll share how identifying those patterns helped me begin to ground some of the anxiety zipping around in me and my family.

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Maybe you’ve never heard of Bowen Theory before. How about Family Systems? No? OK, no problem. So why am I starting up a Substack newsletter by writing a series on Bowen theory? Take a seat–It’s storytime!

Once upon a time, not too long ago, I was struggling and worrying over a situation that was out of my control. People I loved were hurting. But the harder I tried to help them, the worse things seem to get. I’d try to say and do all the right things. But it didn’t help. So I would worry some more. Then, one day, a pivotal moment came. I suddenly realized that my actions weren’t just ineffective. They were actually making things worse. In some small but meaningful ways, I had contributed to the problems and the hurt around me. 

Believe it or not, that was good news!

That realization was painful but freeing. I welcomed it, knowing that if I took responsibility for myself by carefully telling the truth in word and action, I might be able to untangle one small part of the Gordian knot. Rather than just being collateral damage in a situation that I couldn’t fix, I was a free agent. I could evaluate what was actually my responsibility, and slowly begin to operate with more faith and integrity in those areas. And the parts that weren’t my responsibility? I could emotionally return those things to the people that they belonged to. A lot of life really is outside of my control. And I have to give that control back to the people who own it, and give the entire situation over to God. 

Slowly, I began to evaluate my modus operandi. Instead of seeing myself as a sort of victim, being caught in a web of tricky situations, I recognized how many of my words and actions are fueled by anxiety, not integrity or love. I began to act with more careful honesty, both to myself and to others. 

First, I resolved to stay calm when things got hairy. To my surprise, when I stopped playing out the same patterns and began to hold myself to a higher standard of honesty, things did not get better. I thought that my calm might be catching. Instead, conversations escalated more quickly and conflicts got worse (or so it seemed to me at the time). 

Why Bowen? What Bowen? 

Right around that time, someone recommended a book to me about Bowen family systems theory. I dove into the book, and was thunderstruck by how accurately it described my situation. The book pointed out that families, churches and businesses are relationship systems that function, in many ways, like a living organism. In one chapter, the book explained what usually happens when someone takes more responsibility for themselves and changes up some patterns. That person effectively changed the rules on everyone else in their system. Instead of helping everyone else to calm down, everything tends to go haywire for a bit. The anxiety in the system increases instead of decreasing. But in the long term, if that first person can hold on to their convictions and withstand the pressure, the whole system will benefit. 

The book was right.

Default Mode

I’m a milliennial, and I’m a mother. Most of my ideas about relationships are founded on the idea of attachment. Even if you’ve never heard of attachment theory, you’ve probably heard of attachment parenting. And even if you’ve never ascribed to attachment parenting, you’ve probably been influenced by its ideas in more ways than you realize. It’s the air we breathe. In that context, I thought that more love, more empathy, more listening, more troubleshooting, more rehashing, and even more conflict…could bring healing. 

I am also, first and foremost, a Christian. I believed that prayer was essential, and that God was in control of the entire situation, and that He would bring healing in His time. I still believe that with all my being. But now I see that one way He is bringing healing is by providing tools for me to better understand myself, and better understand what happened during that complicated time. I also understand that God brings difficult situations into my life to discipline me, but the outcome of that discipline depends upon me submitting myself to the discipline. I asked myself, what would it look like to waste this hardship? What would it look like to “kick against the goads” (Acts 26:14)? Next I asked my self, what would it look like for me to “kiss the Son” (Psalm 2:12), and submit myself to the discipline that God had placed in my life? 

Please proceed to the observation deck 

I think there’s some truth to the ideas of attachment theory. But when I only have one vantage point to examine a problem, the problem looks very two-dimensional. I see causes. I see effects. I might see individuals who are behaving badly (by my standards). But if I have a second observation deck to stare at it from, I begin to see its shape with much more dimension. I encounter its complexity, and I see possible solutions emerge that never would have appeared from a single vantage point. 

In that sense, Bowen was an entirely new perspective on the systems and relationships in my life. It was like a new set of tools for dismantling a malfunctioning machine and then troubleshooting the problem. Through Bowen theory, I learned that there is a vicious side of attachment: emotional fusion. I came to see how empathy can be a product of anxiety instead of love. And I came to understand that none of my anxiety-fueled fix-it energy would help. 

At that point in my life, God used Bowen family systems theory to grow my faith. That book armed me with the knowledge that:

• Things get worse before they get better

• People will get more anxious when you change the rules on them, even if you’re staying calmer and operating with more integrity. 

• Situations usually calm down if you level up. But it takes time. 

It gave me the courage to keep trying this little life experiment of operating out of quiet conviction instead of fear, even if it looked like it was making everything worse. So I kept at it, very imperfectly. But I was failing in the right direction. I believed that in time, this project of growing myself up would benefit everyone I care about most.  

Perhaps my own personal project of growth didn’t help other people in any life-changing way. But it was life-changing for me. And at the very least, I was no longer contributing to a difficult situation by fueling it with my own portion of anxiety and reactivity.

From there, I began to see how anxiety has been my companion through all of life. I saw, for the first time, that I attempt to control other people and situations to calm myself down. I saw how emotional fusion has stunted my growth. I saw how I hatch problems and perpetuate problems and complicate problems around me. I began to tinker around with a new set of tools, working on myself instead of working on other people.

Bowen theory has been a game-changer for me. God has used it to open my eyes to my own sin and fear, and equip me with knowledge that leads to real change. But speaking and acting in truth is a life-long  process. God is peeling back layers of self-protection and teaching me to manage myself instead of others.

 Now I’m inviting you to join me on the observation deck! Over the next six weeks, I will be introducing the core ideas from Bowen theory that have most impacted me. I hope you’ll join me and start tinkering around.