The Stories We Tell Ourselves During Conflict

Many people come to therapy hoping to learn better communication skills: to argue less, express themselves more clearly, and finally feel understood.

Yet in years of working with couples, one pattern stands out: communication itself is rarely the biggest obstacle.

What gets in the way is less visible than that. In conflict, we stop being curious about our partner’s inner world and start assuming instead.

“You don’t care.”

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

“You always think I’m the problem.”

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Once we believe we know what our partner is thinking, we stop responding to the person in front of us and start responding to the story we have built about them. Often, they are doing the same. Two people, no longer talking to each other, instead talking to their interpretations of each other.

I think of a couple I worked with. One partner had gone through a period of treating the other’s time as less important: prioritising their plans, running late, assuming flexibility. It caused real damage to the relationship.

However, over time, the behaviour changed. But the old reactions did not change with it.

Today, when the partner who once took their own time for granted occasionally needs to do so again, they often hesitate before even asking. They already anticipate anger, disappointment, or a no, even though those reactions have become much less common.

At the same time, the other partner may still feel the familiar flash: My time doesn’t matter to them, even when the request is reasonable and very different from what happened in the past.

Neither is fully responding to what is happening now. Both are responding to expectations shaped by earlier experiences.

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This is what keeps old patterns alive long after their original cause has been addressed: not the absence of change, but a story that never caught up to it.

Psychologists call the capacity to stay curious about another person’s thoughts, feelings, and intentions while recognizing that we can never know them with certainty mentalizing. It is a form of emotional and relational flexibility. It helps us pause before deciding that we already know what something means.

That capacity tends to disappear exactly when we need it most. Under criticism or hurt, the nervous system shifts into protection mode. The mind that was wondering about the other person a moment ago is now focused on staying safe.

This is why empathy cannot be demanded mid-conflict.

Often, regulation has to come first: a short pause, noticing a racing heart, or simply naming the feeling: “I’m scared this turns into a fight.”

“I’m hurt, and it feels familiar.”

Research on affect labeling suggests that naming an emotion can reduce its intensity, creating just enough space to think instead of react.

In the case of this couple, both eventually realised that before reacting automatically, they needed to ask themselves:

"Am I responding to what is happening now, or to what happened before?"

That brief moment of reflection made it easier to consider the request itself, rather than the story they had already attached to it.

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One simple exercise: the next time you feel certain you know what your partner is thinking, ask yourself for three other possible explanations.

None of these need to be correct. The value is in the pause itself because it interrupts certainty and makes room for wondering again.

Understanding does not resolve conflict on the spot. But it influences the quality of the conversation, and that is often where change begins. Not when the behaviour changes, but when the story about it is finally allowed to change too.