How I stopped relying solely on my partner for emotional support

Did you know men actually want romance more than women?

FYI: I’m taking the next two weeks off from writing for a much-needed vacation, so you won’t get another post until June. Thank you so much for supporting me. I’d love to hear your thoughts about what I should write about when I’m back and feeling refreshed (email me: jeremy@mohler.coach)!

I don’t want to jinx it, but the loneliness that’s been gnawing at my back ever since I can remember hasn’t been around for months. Just in November, I wrote about feeling a “deeper and darker” isolation than ever before. Now, I feel full and connected pretty much all the time, even when no one is around.

Maybe it’s spring and the ginkgo trees around my house are exploding. Maybe it’s how busy I am with the house my partner and I just bought. Maybe it’s because I just started my own therapy private practice. Maybe it’s because I’ll soon be turning 40.

But my hunch is it has more to do with the decade of therapy I’ve now done, which I started after getting my heart broken and never stopped. It’s impossible to measure objectively, but compared to my 20-something self, I’m way less stressed, less anxious, less depressed, and—especially recently—less lonely.

Don’t get me wrong, I still feel shitty multiple times a day. A therapist shouldn’t go around telling people this: Going to therapy has made me more aware of how painful life can be. But it’s also given me tools to work through it. And I’d never go back to before I had them.

We’ve been dealing with major electrical work on our house for a month. It’s been a nightmare. Loud noise. Drywall dust everywhere. Rooms without power. A difficult contractor. It’s thrown off our sleep. It’s caused tension in our relationship.

If my 29-year-old self had gone through this, he’d be drinking more than he wanted to every night to get through it. He’d be swinging wildly between going with the flow, pretending it’s all good, being the nice guy and occasionally yelling at my partner and the contractor. He wouldn’t know what was happening inside of him, let alone how to talk about it with other people. I must say, my 39-year-old-therapy-going self has navigated this dumpster fire pretty damn well.

But back to my point: I’m not lonely anymore.

I’m in a great relationship with a great person. I have plenty of friends. My work is fulfilling. And even when no one’s around—when my partner’s out of town and I don’t have plans on a Friday night—I don’t feel all that lonely.

I think that’s why I teared up a little the other day when I saw this study finding that men tend to strive for a romantic partner more, benefit more from being partnered, and are less likely to initiate but more likely to suffer more from a breakup. (Thanks,

Katie Jgln

, for sharing it!)

As Katie wrote:

“While women have grown less concerned with the patriarchal stigmas around being single—that whole ‘childless cat lady’ nonsense—and no longer rely on marriage for economic stability and, as a result, are de-prioritizing romance and instead prioritizing themselves and other forms of love, men are in a very different boat.”

Men today aren’t necessarily lonelier than other people, but we tend to rely on smaller social networks. This leaves us more reliant on a romantic partner for most if not all of our emotional support.

I’ve been that guy—and to some degree, still am.

I felt it yesterday at 6 p.m., after seeing my last client and closing my laptop. My stomach was hungry for dinner and my heart for connection. I walked into the kitchen hoping my partner was there ready to reflect on the day, dance, laugh, kiss, and figure out who’s making dinner. But she was still at the gym with friends. I put on a podcast about the Dallas Cowboys (I know, we suck) and started chopping vegetables, waiting for that special moment for another hour or so.

When she got back, my heart warmed up, like opening the door to a pitch-black basement and letting the light in. But sometimes in the evening on a workday, she’s not in the mood to connect. She seems preoccupied, in her head—like all of us get from time to time. There’s a part of me that’s so sensitive to her attention level. When I’ve slowed down and felt into it, it’s like a little toddler inside of me, throwing tantrums when mommy isn’t around.

Therapy has helped me ride these waves with a little more ease. It’s helped me uncover when these patterns started back when I was a kid. It’s helped me let go of the unhealthy ways I used to cope with loneliness back then—getting lost in video games, numbing out in front of the TV, eating comfort food even if I wasn’t hungry. These things aren’t bad in themselves, but now I feel like I have a little more choice over how I soothe and take care of myself.

Therapy (particularly group therapy) has also helped me talk to other people about what I’m feeling and let them know what I need. Sometimes I tell my partner I’m feeling lonely and need some quality time. She can’t always be there for me, but she often can.

Outside of my relationship, I tell my friends and colleagues (hell, even my neighbors) how I’m actually feeling. I don’t just say, “I’m fine,” or “It’s all good.” When they ask how I’m doing, I tell them I’m anxious or lonely or sad or stressed. They can’t always be there for me—and aren’t often expecting me to actually answer when they ask how I’m doing. But most often they listen and care for me. We both get a little jolt of connection in a society so focused on work and productivity and making profits for a small handful of super rich people that connection is hard to come by.

Maybe that’s it—why I’m not as lonely these days. There’s potential connection all around me almost all of the time, and therapy has helped me learn to let it in.

What do you think? Comment below or email me: jeremy@mohler.coach. Why do you think men tend to rely on our partners more?

— Jeremy