The Art of Relationship Neglect: A Master Class in Missing the Point
A couples therapist's field notes on why, in an age of divided attention, we treat our most important relationships like houseplants that thrive on neglect.
Here's the thing that'll make you want to throw this article across the room: you're probably terrible at relationships, and it's not because you're a bad person. It's because you've been systematically trained to be terrible at them, and like most systematic training, you didn't even notice it happening.
Picture this scenario, which I witness many times per week in my therapy practice: A CEO walks into my office. This person can orchestrate million-dollar deals, manage teams across three continents, and remember the coffee preferences of every client who matters. They can pivot strategies mid-meeting, craft emails that move mountains, and brainstorm solutions to problems that would make lesser mortals weep into their keyboards. But ask them when they last had a meaningful conversation with their spouse that didn't involve logistics, and they look at you like you've asked them to perform interpretive dance while reciting the periodic table.
The beautiful, maddening irony is that we've become absolute virtuosos at managing every relationship except the ones that actually matter. We treat our professional connections like delicate orchids requiring constant attention, perfect lighting, and precisely calibrated nutrients. Meanwhile, our intimate relationships get the cactus treatment—surely they can survive indefinitely in the emotional desert of our divided attention, right? Right?
Wrong. So spectacularly, hilariously wrong.
Let me introduce you to what I call the "sofa phenomenon." It's when your partner becomes indistinguishable from furniture in your life. Comfortable, familiar, routinely used, but fundamentally unnoticed. You wouldn't dream of ignoring a client who's trying to tell you something important, but you'll happily grunt "uh-huh" at your spouse or partner while scrolling through the digital equivalent of mental junk food. The client gets your full attention, eye contact, thoughtful responses. Your life partner gets the leftover scraps of your consciousness, the crumbs of awareness you haven't already fed to your screen.
This is where things get deliciously paradoxical. The person you're ignoring? They're not just sitting there passively accepting their demotion to human wallpaper. Oh no, they're doing what any reasonable mammal does when their bids for connection get repeatedly ignored—they start pursuing harder. And what do you do when someone pursues you while you're trying to decompress with your beloved digital pacifier? You withdraw further. It's like a twisted dance where both partners keep stepping on each other's feet while insisting they're following the right choreography. Its soundtrack is an argument.
Here's the kicker that would make Darwin himself chuckle: we've created an environment where the very behaviors that helped our species survive for millennia are now sabotaging our most important relationships. You’re a social creatures. Your brain is hardwired to pay attention to novelty, unpredictability, the shiny new thing that might represent opportunity or threat. Social media platforms have figured this out and are basically running a 24/7 casino designed to hijack these ancient impulses. Meanwhile, your long-term partner represents the opposite of novelty—they're predictable, familiar, safe. In evolutionary terms, "safe" often meant "boring," so your prehistoric brain keeps whispering, "Hey, maybe check what's happening on that glowing rectangle instead."
But here's where it gets really interesting. The solution isn't about grand gestures or relationship retreats in Tuscany. It's about understanding what researchers call "bids for connection"—those tiny, seemingly insignificant moments when someone reaches out. When your partner shows you a funny meme, mentions something they read, or asks how your day went, they're essentially saying, "Hey, I'm thinking about you. We're in this together. You matter to me."
Your response to these micro-moments? That's where relationships live or die. Not in the big anniversary dinners or vacation photos that make everyone on social media jealous. In the split-second decision between acknowledging that bid for connection or letting it bounce off you like you're wearing emotional armor.
I had a client tell me about their partner sending them Instagram posts throughout the day—little funny videos, interesting articles, random thoughts. For months, my client would watch them and move on with their day. No response, no acknowledgment. Until their partner finally said, "You stopped acknowledging these. It feels like you don't care." And suddenly my client realized: the content wasn't the point. The sharing was the point. The "I saw this and thought of you" was the point. The "we're connected even when we're apart" was the point.
The magnificent thing about understanding relationship systems is this: you can't control another person, but you can absolutely influence the dance. Change your steps, and your partner has to change theirs. Stop treating your relationship like a cactus and start treating it like what it actually is—the most complex, delicate, and rewarding ecosystem you'll ever be responsible for maintaining.
Put the phone down. Take a walk together. Listen when they talk. Acknowledge their bids for connection. These aren't revolutionary concepts—they're the relationship equivalent of remembering to water your plants and occasionally opening the curtains to let in some light.
The choice is yours: continue being an expert at everything except the thing that matters most, or apply even a fraction of the creativity and attention you bring to work to the person who actually has to live with the real you.
Your relationship is not a cactus. Stop treating it like one.
After years of couples therapy, I can tell you that the couples who make it aren't the ones with perfect compatibility or endless passion. They're the ones who figured out that love is a verb, not a feeling—and decided to act accordingly.