Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about conflict in relationships—how much is too much, and when does it stop being a sign of passion and start being a red flag? At what point do you stop calling it "normal" and start calling it "toxic"? I guess these questions have been circling my head because I’m in the middle of figuring them out myself. Love is beautiful, sure, but it’s also chaotic, inconvenient, and sometimes, deeply uncomfortable. No one tells you how much work it actually takes to keep a relationship alive. Not just alive—growing.
We romanticize compatibility like it’s some kind of magic. Like if you’re truly meant to be, you won’t fight. But that’s nonsense. Conflict is inevitable when two people with different brains, histories, and triggers try to share a life. Expecting a relationship with zero friction is like expecting to fly a plane without ever hitting turbulence. You don’t need to crash—but you do need to know how to fly through the rough patches.
I’ve seen couples who rarely argue. They look calm, serene, almost smug in their peace. But I’ve also seen how one unexpected argument can unearth years of suppressed feelings, break trust in seconds, and leave them wondering how something that looked so stable could fall apart so fast. Then there are the loud couples—the ones who argue in front of friends, who throw sarcasm like darts but would never even dream of walking away from each other. I used to think less fighting = better relationship. I don’t think that anymore.
What I do believe in now is how people fight. Because let’s be honest, some fights are necessary. They expose what needs to be addressed. But others? Petty, pride-driven, ego-fueled dramas that serve no one. So I’ve started asking myself harder questions in the aftermath of arguments. Am I speaking to connect, or to hurt? Am I trying to understand—or just defend my position? Am I repeating patterns I grew up with, or reacting from an unhealed place?
I believe that when couples fight and argue, no matter how often or how rarely, it’s not about the quantity but the quality of their conflict and how they resolve it. What truly matters is how they work through the conflict and how their relationship evolves afterwards. When disagreements happen, do they listen to each other and try to understand different perspectives, or do they just shout and ignore? The way they manage their arguments says a lot about their relationship.
I’ve also learned the value of silence—not the cold, punishing kind, but the pause. The breath. The moment you choose not to escalate. That’s a form of love too. Not every disagreement needs to be dissected into a thesis. Sometimes, the most loving thing you can say is, “Let’s come back to this when we’re both calm.”
Avoiding conflict might keep things superficially peaceful, but it’s fake peace. It’s the kind of silence that grows into resentment, the kind that eventually explodes when you least expect it. On the flip side, picking fights over every single annoyance just burns you both out. Relationships need space to breathe. Everything doesn't have to be a battle.
The strongest relationships I’ve seen are the ones where both people are willing to sit in the discomfort of conflict without turning it into warfare. Where there’s a genuine effort to listen, even when it’s hard. Where "sorry" isn’t seen as weakness. Where people apologize not just to end the fight, but because they mean it. That kind of maturity? Rare, but powerful.
Resolving conflict is like rowing a boat—you either learn to paddle in sync or end up going in circles. Sure, you’ll get splashed. You’ll get frustrated. But if you both keep rowing—keep showing up—it’s possible to move forward. And when you get through one storm together, you’re better prepared for the next.
The truth is, what happens after a fight matters just as much, if not more, than the fight itself. Do you both reflect? Do you change? Or do you bury it and pretend it never happened? Healthy conflict can deepen connection. It can teach you more about yourself, your partner, and the way you both love.
I’ve stopped wishing for a relationship with no conflict. I don’t want a fairytale. I want something real. And real things break sometimes—but if you’re both willing to pick up the pieces together, that’s the kind of love that lasts.
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