A long-term relationship is defined by more than just the good experiences shared, the similarity of tastes and values, the quality of conversations, or the ease of mutual adaptation. Just as important is what happens when we truly disagree for the first time. Are we able to tolerate the fact that the other person experienced the same situation in a completely different way? Can we maintain our curiosity even when our own sense of truth is challenged? Can we find our way back to each other after being hurt?
As long as there is no genuine conflict between us, we remain unaware of this side of the relationship.
We may share years of love, a shared mindset, trust, and intimacy. We may know each other’s stories, sensitivities, weaknesses, and quirks. We may feel a sense of mutual acceptance. Yet, all of this can be real while a previously invisible area of the relationship remains—one that only reveals itself when something goes wrong. This applies just as much to friendships as it does to romantic relationships.
In his essay *Friendship*, Béla Hamvas describes friendship as a “classic” relationship. While friendship and romantic love function differently, both can touch upon a depth of existence where a person no longer merely seeks companionship but reveals their true self, accepting the risk of being truly seen by the other. Perhaps this is why the loss of a friendship can hurt just as deeply as the end of a romantic relationship. Yet, we tend to view friendship as a lighter, less binding connection—as if the stakes were lower. In reality, deep friendships involve the same elements of attachment, trust, idealization, protectiveness, vulnerability, and fear of abandonment. Old relationship patterns can manifest in them just as readily.
Idealization does not necessarily mean viewing the other person as flawless. We may notice their difficult traits—and even feel annoyed by them at times—while still idealizing the relationship itself. We believe it to be secure, mutual, and unshakable. It is not the person we see as perfect, but rather the assumption that, come what may, we will turn to one another. That is why it can be so jarring when, during a conflict, the other person reveals a side of themselves we had never seen before—or had only witnessed in their interactions with others.
The closer we grow to someone, the more opportunities arise for friction. There are more interactions, more misunderstandings, more conflicting needs, and more moments when one of us is inattentive, tired, or particularly sensitive. Conflict, therefore, is not necessarily a sign of a flawed relationship; often, it is simply a consequence of closeness. It can happen that someone grows up in a relational environment where saying “no” is difficult, constant adaptation is required, and grievances are regularly swallowed. Later, within a safer, less oppressive, or chosen relationship, that person may begin to assert themselves vigorously—sometimes precisely after realizing in therapy just how important it is to set boundaries.
In such cases, the boundary does not become visible gradually; instead, it suddenly rises like a wall between the two people. The other person is left bewildered, having previously perceived only smiling hints, quiet dissatisfaction, or tentative requests—the significance of which only became clear in hindsight. Yet now, they are told they have repeatedly crossed a boundary that had long been clearly defined.
An internal boundary only becomes a relational boundary that the other person can respect if it is clearly communicated and they are given the chance to understand and heed it. Articulating the issue is primarily the responsibility of the person who perceives it. While the other person has a role to play in paying attention and asking clarifying questions, they cannot be expected to guess the problem from hints or to beg repeatedly just to find out what is wrong. Hints are not always unambiguous. What constitutes a clear prohibition for one person might appear to another as merely a preference, a sign of momentary fatigue, or a request applicable only to a specific situation.
Let us consider a few everyday examples. Someone sends a friend a link to an event. They intend it as a simple share or a thoughtful gesture, yet the other person perceives it as an invitation, an attempt at persuasion, or even pressure. The same can happen with unsolicited advice: one person sees it as an act of care, while the other perceives it as criticism.
Or imagine someone repeatedly inviting another person to large, noisy social gatherings. Such situations place a heavy strain on the other person’s nervous system, so they consistently decline—while clearly indicating that they would happily meet one-on-one. The person extending the invitation, however, hears only the rejection. They feel hurt and conclude from these refusals that the relationship is unimportant. One person is speaking about their own limits of tolerance, while the other feels their own lovability is being called into question.
A relationship can also be subtly reshaped by the opinion of a third party. If someone regularly shares negative stories, insinuations, or pre-formed interpretations about another person with us, we may eventually begin to view that person through that lens. We might attribute intentions to their behavior that we would not have assumed previously. In such moments, it is crucial to ask ourselves what we have experienced firsthand versus what we have adopted from someone else’s narrative.
It can also happen that someone says they do not wish to discuss a particular topic at the moment. One person might interpret this as a temporary pause, while the other intends to signal that the subject is closed for good.
Intent and impact can indeed differ. However, acknowledging the impact does not require us to retroactively attribute malicious intent to someone who meant something entirely different. Something can be distressing without being intended as manipulation. Someone can be inattentive without intending to disregard the other person. A rejection can be painful without signifying a rejection of the relationship itself.
None of us perceives these situations in isolation. We all encounter them through the filter of our own past, previous experiences, fears, and expectations. We react not merely to what happened, but to the meaning those events have acquired for us. The very same suggestion for an activity might be an attempt at connection for one person, yet serve as proof to another that they are once again being disregarded. The same piece of advice may be helpful to one person while feeling like a put-down to another. A declined invitation might be an act of self-preservation for one person, yet a personal rejection to another. An outside opinion can serve as a crucial warning to one individual, while appearing as an unfair intrusion to someone else.
One of the most dangerous turns a conflict can take is when, instead of examining specific behaviors, we begin to interpret the other person’s entire character. We stop saying, “I felt pressured in this situation,” and start saying, “You are manipulative.” We no longer say, “I didn’t feel heard,” but rather, “You only ever care about yourself.” Experience turns into judgment, and judgment evolves into a narrative about the kind of person the other is.
The less direct information we have, the more stories our minds fabricate. We fill in the gaps with past hurts, fears, and memories from other relationships. As time passes, the two individuals may solidify increasingly different versions of the same event. Eventually, they are no longer interacting with each other, but with the internal narratives they have constructed about one another.
Written communication—now an everyday occurrence—easily exacerbates this dynamic. Tone of voice, eye contact, gestures, and the opportunity for immediate clarification or correction are all missing. One person expresses themselves ever more forcefully to ensure they are finally understood, while the other explains in increasing detail to avoid being misunderstood. What one person intends as a clarification, the other experiences as pressure. What one calls setting a boundary, the other perceives as rejection.
In such moments, the two rational adults often fade into the background, and their wounded selves begin to speak to one another. One person reaches out, explains, and pushes for a response, fearing the loss of the relationship. The other withdraws, pulls away, and speaks more bluntly, fearing their needs are being ignored. Both are trying to restore their own sense of security, yet in doing so, they inadvertently intensify the very fears the other is harboring.
Understanding another person requires empathy, but empathy is not mind-reading. Our intuitions about another person’s feelings are always reflected within us; thus, they are partly about us, too. They can be spot-on, or they can lead us completely astray. Therefore, it is best to frame an empathetic hunch as a question rather than a definitive conclusion.
“Am I right in sensing that you felt pressured?”
“Do I understand correctly that even the suggestion itself felt overwhelming to you?”
“When you said no, did you mean that I shouldn’t send that kind of content at all?”
“Am I right that you’re turning down the social outing not because of me or the other specific people involved, but because the crowd and the noise are too overwhelming for you?”
“What did you need from me in that moment?”
These questions open up space. Interpretations of the other person’s character shut it down. A reaction that is intense—and seems disproportionate to the event itself—often suggests that the current situation has touched upon something from the past. This might be termed a trigger, a shadow, a traumatic memory, or a sensitive spot. Recognizing this does not invalidate the boundary, nor does it absolve the person who was inattentive. It offers an opportunity to view the conflict not solely as the other person’s fault, but also to notice what within us is calling for attention and healing.
The same applies to someone who begins to explain themselves desperately. Such an explanation is often not a conscious attempt to persuade the other person, but rather an alarm signal from the nervous system. The individual is trying to restore the image others have of them, the relationship itself, and the reality they believed was shared. While this kind of explaining can still become overwhelming, we can take responsibility for it in a different way if we recognize the nature of driven by fear.
Spiritual awareness does not mean that we will no longer take offense, feel fear or anger, or have our old wounds triggered. The goal is not an absence of emotion. Complete emotional detachment can easily amount to resignation or dissociation. Participating in life means allowing these feelings to arise within us, while noticing what is happening inside us sooner and relying less on our most vulnerable parts to dictate our actions.
In a conflict, both parties are responsible for their own inner work. One person might need to learn to pause, ask questions, tolerate uncertainty, and create space. The other might need to speak more clearly, distinguish their own feelings from their judgments about the other person, and address the issue before it hardens into a wall or a final verdict. These roles can be interchangeable; within the same relationship, both individuals may find themselves in either position.
Setting a boundary does not necessarily mean cutting off the relationship. It can also be a door—one that cannot be entered for a time, yet one where the reasons for its closure and the conditions for reopening it can be clearly articulated.
In a scientific stand-up routine about happiness, Barnabás Szászi put it something like this: back in the day, if a friend did something stupid, you simply had a friend who was currently acting stupid. Nowadays, when someone does something foolish, we are quick to feel that we must immediately draw a line, block them, and cut them out of our lives.
It is as if we were applying the logic of consumer culture to our human relationships. We no longer try to fix what is broken or inconvenient; instead, we replace, discard, or cast it out of our lives. Modern discourse on boundaries sometimes treats human friction as if every unpleasant moment were toxic, every oversight a boundary violation, and every difficult relationship something to be abandoned immediately. Yet, if we remove everyone who ever misunderstands, irritates, or disappoints us, we will sooner or later find ourselves not with safe relationships, but with a carefully guarded solitude.
Of course, there are relationships one must leave. There is abuse, persistent humiliation, deliberate manipulation, and a pattern of repeated destructiveness. The question is whether we can distinguish between these things and simple human fallibility. A dangerous pattern carries a different weight than a misunderstood remark, an imprecisely communicated boundary, or a clumsily handled conflict.
Unconditional love does not imply unconditional access. Trust can be damaged, and rebuilding it requires time, consistency, and a sense of safety. Love does not oblige us to endure everything, nor does disappointment necessitate erasing the other person entirely from our lives. Restoring a relationship requires more than simply determining who was right. It calls for curiosity, specifics, mutual accountability, courage, and a sense of security that is gradually rebuilt. It also requires the courage to confront what the conflict has revealed about ourselves—and therein lies the true potential of a crisis.
A crisis is not a prerequisite for catharsis. Beautiful music, a sudden realization, or an unexpected encounter with beauty can move us deeply—even to tears—and cleanse our spirits. However, when a crisis does occur within a relationship, it can carry the potential for catharsis. This requires two people capable of taking not only their own pain seriously but also that of the other; neither needs to disappear for the other to feel understood.
(translated from Hungarian)
