Why More Explaining Usually Makes Things Worse

He finally has her attention.

She isn't interrupting.

She isn't defending herself.

She's listening.

And for a moment, I can almost see the relief on his face.

Finally.

Maybe if I can just explain this well enough, she'll understand what I've been trying to say.

So he starts talking.

At first, he's telling her about himself. What he's been feeling. What he's been afraid of.

Why this matters so much to him.

But then something shifts.

He stops looking at her.

His eyes drift somewhere across the room, and his sentences get longer.

He starts explaining what happened. Then why it happened. Then what she did. Then

what he thinks she was feeling when she did it.

He's no longer telling her about his experience.

He's building a case for his version of theirs.

And the more he talks, the more material he gives her to disagree with.

I watch her shoulders begin to curl forward.

Her eyes drop.

Her breathing gets a little shallower.

A few minutes ago, she was listening.

Now she's bracing.

And he doesn't see it.

He's still talking because, from where he's sitting, this may be the closest they've been in a long time.

He thinks he's finally being understood. She feels increasingly misunderstood.

This is one of the stranger things I see happen between couples.

The person doing all the explaining is often trying desperately to create connection.

They're not necessarily trying to win.

They're not trying to manipulate their partner into agreeing with them.

Sometimes they're trying to create something much more understandable:

A shared reality.

Please see what I see.

Please understand why this hurts.

Please tell me I'm not the only one who sees what has been happening between us.

But somewhere in that effort, something important can get lost.

The person sitting across from them.

Because there is a point when explaining your experience quietly becomes explaining

your partner to themselves.

And those are not the same thing.

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When Explaining Starts to Feel Like Connecting

The problem is that explaining can feel a lot like connecting.

At least to the person doing the explaining.

Especially when you've been trying to be understood for a long time.

Your partner is finally listening.

You're finally getting to finish a sentence.

No one has walked away yet.

So you keep going.

You remember another example that proves your point.

Then another.

You clarify the part they misunderstood last time.

You explain why their interpretation isn't quite right.

And before long, you're no longer trying to help your partner understand you.

You're trying to get them to see the relationship the way you see it.

That difference matters.

Because the moment your partner has to agree with your version of what happened in

order for you to feel understood, listening becomes a very difficult job.

Now they aren't just being asked to understand your experience.

They're being asked to accept your conclusions about theirs.

You pulled away because...

You always do this when...

The reason you reacted that way is...

Even when you're right about some of it, notice what just happened.

You left your own experience and crossed over into theirs.

And there's a decent chance they're about to come get it back.

So they correct something.

"No, that's not why I did that."

You explain the larger point they're missing.

They point out another detail you got wrong.

And suddenly two people who desperately want to feel understood are arguing over

whose description of the relationship is more accurate.

This is how a conversation about hurt can quietly become a trial about facts.

The more you explain your partner, the less room you leave for them to reveal themselves.

---

Why the Same Conversation Keeps Happening

Here's where I think many couples get confused.

When the conversation fails, they misunderstand why.

The person explaining thinks:

I didn't say it right.

I should have given a better example.

If my partner hadn't gotten defensive, they would have understood.

The listener may be thinking something entirely different.

Nothing I say is going to be enough.

Here we go again.

I can't do another conversation like this.

Neither person necessarily recognizes the moment they lost each other.

So the next time, the explaining partner tries harder.

They choose their words more carefully.

They rehearse what they want to say.

They arrive with another example, another explanation, another attempt to finally get

through.

Sometimes they even arrive with better communication skills.

But they're still entering the conversation with the same expectation.

I'm going to say everything I need to say, and I'm going to make sure you understand.

What they haven't considered is whether their partner can remain connected while

they're saying it.

They're changing the explanation without changing what's happening between them.

And each unsuccessful attempt makes the pattern more familiar.

One person becomes increasingly desperate to be understood.

The other becomes increasingly cautious about listening.

One pushes harder.

The other protects themselves more.

Eventually, both begin to dread conversations they genuinely want to be able to have.

Not necessarily because the subject is impossible to discuss.

But because neither recognizes what keeps happening in the middle.

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What If the Goal Was Different?

Sometimes, in couples therapy, I'll interrupt someone who's explaining and ask their

partner what they've been able to take in.

The answer can be surprising.

They understood the beginning.

They may even have felt close for a moment.

But somewhere along the way, they got lost.

And the person explaining had no idea.

This is where I think couples have an opportunity to do something different.

Before a difficult conversation, most of us are thinking about what we want to say.

We rehearse our words.

We organize our thoughts.

We prepare for the possibility that our partner won't understand.

But how often do we consider what we want to protect while we're having the conversation?

What if, instead of going in determined to say everything you need to say, you entered with a different intention?

I want us to feel connected when this conversation is over.

Not necessarily in agreement.

Not necessarily finished.

But still able to reach each other.

Before the conversation begins, imagine what that connection might feel like.

Then, while you're talking, keep some of your attention on yourself and some on your partner.

Are they still with you?

Are you still with them?

You might notice when their expression changes.

You might hear something different in their tone.

You might catch yourself speaking faster, preparing another example, or becoming

increasingly determined to finish your point.

And instead of pushing through, you could slow down.

You could ask, "Am I making sense?" or "What are you thinking right now?"

You could become curious about what just happened between you.

Not because you've done something wrong.

But because how your words are landing matters.

And here's the harder part.

You may have to tolerate not saying everything.

You may have to leave a conversation unfinished.

You may have to trust that something important can wait until tomorrow, or next week,

when you're both more available to hear it.

That can feel uncomfortable, especially if you've spent years believing that getting everything out is the only way to finally feel better.

But consider what happens when you insist on finishing at the expense of your partner's ability to stay with you.

You may leave relieved.

They may leave overwhelmed.

And the next time you need to talk, you're both starting a little farther apart.

Sometimes six shorter conversations over two months accomplish more than one exhausting conversation where everything gets said and neither person feels heard.

Getting everything off your chest isn't the same as getting closer to your partner.

And if you've spent this article thinking about how much your partner needs to learn this,

there's a decent chance you have a few moments of your own worth noticing.

We usually do.

Because this isn't simply about talking less.

It's about developing the ability to notice what's happening between you while you're speaking.

To recognize your own urgency without automatically following it.

To catch the moment your partner begins pulling away.

And to be willing to slow down before another familiar conversation becomes another familiar disappointment.

You don't have to abandon what you need to say.

You have to stop abandoning the connection in order to say it.

Over time, that becomes a different kind of relationship skill.

Not finishing every conversation.

Not finding the perfect explanation.

But learning to notice when you're about to lose each other and choosing to protect what still connects you.

That's the work I help couples develop in couples therapy.

And it changes what becomes possible between you.