There’s a particular kind of aliveness that comes with early dating—yes, because of new relationship energy, but also because the early stages of relationships tend to be more witnessed.

When I first started dating my current partner, my friends were deeply invested in the minutiae of every development: Where did she take you for dinner? Have you kissed yet? What kind of music do they listen to? Show us pictures!!! This is a time when the group chats tend to be extra chatty.

As a culture, we know how to be interested in relationships that are escalating—we love first date recounts, engagement stories, wedding sagas. We also love to hear every detail about how a breakup went down. We do a far worse job, though, investing our interest in relationships that are relatively consistent over time.

It’s not just that we’re culturally less invested in listening to stories about stability and making love work over years and decades. We are also less encouraged to share these stories with each other. But long-term relationships have stories too. Arguably, even juicier ones. Lately, these are the stories I’ve become more interested in talking about.

The Privacy Shift

I think of the privacy shift as the quiet moment when a relationship moves from something you talk about to something you protect: when, as commitment deepens, many couples share less—especially the messy, tender, conflict-y parts—with friends and community. Some of that is beautiful and intentional (boundaries, consent, respect). But other times, not sharing can quietly become isolating for those in the relationship without anyone noticing. One or both/all partners may start to become their entire container for stress, repair, and meaning-making, while the wider network that once offered perspective, nervous-system support, and normalization slowly fades into the background.

Part of what makes this shift so sneaky is that it doesn’t usually happen because anyone is doing something “wrong.” It happens because privacy starts to feel like love. Because we’re trying to do right by each other. Because we’ve been taught that maturity means handling everything in-house.

And because the longer you’re together, the more your lives merge—your calendars, your families, your friend groups, your sense of “us.” The very people you might have once leaned on can start to feel like they’re also in the relationship ecosystem now, and it can feel riskier to be candid about conflict when you don’t want anyone taking sides (or storing your hardest moments as evidence to use against the relationship).

Privacy isn’t the problem—Isolation is.

I’m not advocating for oversharing, publicly processing everything, or turning your partner into content. I’m talking about the difference between privacy (protecting what’s sacred with consent and care) and isolation (handling what’s sacred alone).

Privacy says: We protect what’s tender between us.
Isolation says: We protect it without the help of others.

And when couples lose community, the relationship starts trying to do too many jobs at once. It becomes the place where you seek comfort, perspective, accountability, erotic aliveness, trauma healing, co-parenting support, and existential meaning—while also being the very place you’re most likely to be triggered and learning. That’s a heavy assignment for any relationship, and it gets heavier in a world that already asks so much of our nervous systems.

When we try to do love in a vacuum, a few things tend to happen. We lose mirrors—people who can reflect our patterns back to us with care. We stop learning from other relationships’ messy middle (because we never see it).  Our relationship starts carrying needs that community does a better job holding: perspective, reassurance, witnessing.

Attuned Openness

A lot of us were raised in a culture that says “figure it out behind closed doors,” and if you can’t… that’s embarrassing. But intimacy doesn’t thrive in shame. It thrives in shared celebration and accountability—done with care.

There’s a middle ground between being isolated in your long-term relationship and oversharing. I call it attuned openness. Attuned openness is the practice of letting yourself be seen without making your partner the price of admission.

It’s the difference between looping in community for support vs. looping in community to be on your side. It’s the difference between venting with no filter and venting for the purpose of moving towards clarity and repair.

When you’re deciding whether (and how) to talk about your relationship with someone else, attuned openness asks you to be mindful of the following: 

1) Who you’re sharing with (and what the stakes are).
Some people struggle more than others to hear about conflict without turning it into judgment. Be intentional about who you’re vulnerable with, what relational skills they’re bringing to the table, and what role they play in your partner’s life.

Attuned openness is discerning: Who can hold complexity without taking sides? Who respects my partner’s humanity? Who doesn’t treat my vulnerability like entertainment?

2) The way you share
Speak from your experience rather than spending tons of time psychoanalyzing your partner without them there. Know your relationship agreements about sharing. Ask, “What do we want to protect, and what do we want to stop giving so much power to by not talking about it?” If a particular detail feels especially vulnerable or revealing, you can talk about patterns. 

Here’s a script you can borrow when addressing a partner: “I want more support than we currently have. I don’t want to make you feel over-exposed, and I also don’t want isolation to be the cost of privacy. Can we talk about what feels shareable, with who, and what feels off-limits?” 

3) What you ask for when you share.
Try naming your intention up front. For example, “I don’t need you to take a side”, “I’m curious if there’s anything I could do to better understand my partner’s experience of this” or “I’d love to know if you and your partner(s) have ever experienced anything like this.”

What does your relationship need you to share, and what does it need you to keep private? And how can you frame what you share respectfully—so you can be held and protective at the same time?

THIS is what I want more of in 2026.

In 2026, I want to help build more spaces where queer couples can be real without shame. One of those spaces is a new Relationship Support Group for queer couples & relationships, where couples will be in community with other couples, talking about what’s going on, learning from each other, practicing repair, and getting to exhale in the presence of people who actually get it.

If your body unclenches at the thought of not doing this alone, sign up for my waiting list below.

And...because I also want us to normalize the messy middle, I’m launching a YouTube series called Third Wheel—where I third wheel queer couples to learn how they’re making their love work. 

My newsletter subscribers will be the first to know when the pilot episode drops… so sign up HERE if you haven’t already.

Picture Credit: I Love LA