And There Were The Tacos

I was sitting at my desk yesterday morning when my phone buzzed. My partner had sent me a photograph of stopped traffic on the San Rafael Bridge. Underneath it, he had written: Staying Alive.

I felt his frustration. I don’t know exactly how I do this, but I feel people deeply. I notice shifts. I hear things underneath words. Sometimes I feel an emotion before anything has been said.

I looked at the photograph and immediately texted him back, Well, at least when you get home, you’ll have your favorite tacos. It’s Taco Tuesday.

That evening, he walked through the door and announced that he was “returning from war.” Again, I felt his frustration. Later, I said something about how unhappy he had seemed all day.

He told me I was crazy. He wasn’t unhappy. He was happy. I told him I could feel his frustration. He told me I was wrong. I told him he didn’t know what he was feeling.

And there we were, two people who love each other, arguing over which one of us knew what he was feeling.

Later, I became curious about our exchange. I am fascinated by the mechanics of relationships—those tiny moments between two people that somehow turn into closeness or distance, understanding or frustration.

So I went back to the beginning. He sent me a photograph of stopped traffic. I felt his frustration. And then something happened so quickly I hadn’t even noticed it.

He’s giving this to me. He wants me to do something about it. I need to make it better.

And there were the tacos.

I laughed when I saw it. In my world, if you brought me your frustration, sadness, anger, or disappointment, you were handing it to me. You wanted me to help. Make you feel better. Fix it.

It didn’t feel like a belief. It felt like the truth.

So I asked myself, Is it true?

Maybe he wanted me to know what his day was like. Maybe he wanted some empathy. Maybe he wanted me to laugh with him about the absurdity of sitting on the bridge. Maybe he simply wanted to share his experience with the person he loves.

Those possibilities had never occurred to me.

That surprised me.

So I kept going. Why had I been so sure his frustration was mine to do something about?

And underneath the tacos, I found something much older.

Knowing how other people feel is one way I learned to feel safe. If I could sense your emotional weather, I knew where I stood. And if you were unhappy, I could try to make you happy again.

Somewhere along the way, this had also become part of how love looked to me. If I could feel what you needed and take care of it, I could stay connected to you.

I could be loved.

Suddenly, the pattern made perfect sense. There was nothing wrong with it. It had been trying to take care of me.

What struck me was that until that moment, I didn’t know it was a pattern. I thought it was simply the way things were.

And that made me wonder how many things we do in our relationships without knowing why we do them. How many things we experience as the truth are old patterns we have never thought to question.

Now that I can see this one, I have a little more choice.

The next time someone I love brings me their frustration, I’ll probably still feel it. I may even feel the old pull to make it better.

But perhaps I can stay there for a moment before reaching for the tacos.

Are you asking me for something? Or are you simply sharing yourself with me?

Maybe that’s what curiosity gives us in relationships. Not a way to fix ourselves or each other, but a little more room to see what is actually happening.

And a little more room to love each other.