Transcript
In 1992, a 22-year-old man named Chris McCandless walked into the Alaskan wilderness, convinced he could survive completely on his own. This was a young man who had everything going for him, he’d just graduated from Emory University, had a trust fund waiting, and a promising law career ahead. But instead, he gave away all his money, abandoned his car in the desert, and cut off every single person in his life. He told himself, that he didn't need anyone. No family. No friends. No help.
And people did try to help. Along his journey, an older man named Ron grew so fond of him that he offered to legally adopt him. A girl named Tracy fell for him and begged him to stay. Even a trucker who gave him a ride pleaded with him to at least take better gear for the harsh conditions ahead. But every single time, Chris would just say, "No thank you, I'm fine."
Four months later, his body was found in an abandoned bus in the middle of that wilderness. He had died cold, alone, and starving, weighing just 67 pounds. One of the last things he wrote in his journal was "Happiness only real when shared." He had spent his entire journey trying to prove he didn't need anyone, and at the very end, he finally understood the truth we're all born knowing: we're not meant to do this alone.
This is the tragedy of avoidant attachment, some people would rather die alone than admit they need anyone. They cling so tightly to their independence that real connection feels threatening. Now most people won’t take it that far, but they’ll still avoid something that really matters. the chance to be truly known by someone.
Avoidant attachment usually starts in a childhood that seems totally normal from the outside. If you ask them, a lot will say something like, "Yeah, my childhood was good. My mom made lunches, my dad took me to football games. I knew they loved me." On the surface, everything sounds fine.
But underneath all that, there's often something crucial missing, something they may not even have the words for. It isn't obvious trauma or neglect in the way we usually think of it; it's more like the entire world of emotions simply didn't exist in their household. Their parents might have been physically present, making sure they had food, got to school, and had help with homework. But when it came to feelings? That was a closed door. They simply "didn't do emotions."
Imagine a little kid falling at the playground and scraping their knee. They do what kids naturally do: they start crying because it hurts and it's scary. They look up to their mom or dad, expecting comfort, but instead, they hear, "That's just a little scrape. Quit crying. You're fine. Stop making such a scene." Instead of getting a hug, they get a lesson in toughening up. So pretty quickly, they learn crying equals bad. Feeling things out loud is not okay. You better shut that stuff down if you want to stay safe.
And that pattern sticks. These kids grow up learning to push their feelings aside and figure things out alone In their homes, if there was conflict or someone was upset, nobody talked it out. Everyone would just walk away, give each other space, and pretend it never happened. So that becomes the model: you deal with your feelings on your own, I’ll deal with mine, and eventually we’ll move on like nothing happened.
The problem is, that model doesn’t really work in close relationships. If you're going to be truly connected with someone, you have to be able to talk through the hard stuff and show up for each other emotionally. Avoidants struggle deeply with that, because it’s unfamiliar and uncomfortable.
This upbringing creates something psychologists call the "effectiveness wound." It's a deep-seated belief that having emotions or needing help means something is fundamentally wrong with you. As kids, they looked around and thought, "I seem to feel a lot, but no one else here does. Maybe I'm the problem."
That belief gets hardwired into how they function. As adults, they still carry that fear that showing vulnerability will lead to rejection or criticism. They act fiercely independent, not because they don't care, but because needing someone else feels incredibly risky. Asking for emotional support feels like waving a giant flag that says, "Hey, I’m not okay," and for them, that is an unbearably scary thing to admit.
The tough part is, the very thing they learned to do to stay safe, shutting down their emotions, is what ends up keeping them from the deep connection they actually want deep down. They actually crave closeness, but they’re scared of what it takes to get there.
This is how avoidants are shaped. They do want love, but they learned early on that showing emotions wasn’t safe.
Read More
Transcript
In 1992, a 22-year-old man named Chris McCandless walked into the Alaskan wilderness, convinced he could survive completely on his own. This was a young man who had everything going for him, he’d just graduated from Emory University, had a trust fund waiting, and a promising law career ahead. But instead, he gave away all his money, abandoned his car in the desert, and cut off every single person in his life. He told himself, that he didn't need anyone. No family. No friends. No help.
And people did try to help. Along his journey, an older man named Ron grew so fond of him that he offered to legally adopt him. A girl named Tracy fell for him and begged him to stay. Even a trucker who gave him a ride pleaded with him to at least take better gear for the harsh conditions ahead. But every single time, Chris would just say, "No thank you, I'm fine."
Four months later, his body was found in an abandoned bus in the middle of that wilderness. He had died cold, alone, and starving, weighing just 67 pounds. One of the last things he wrote in his journal was "Happiness only real when shared." He had spent his entire journey trying to prove he didn't need anyone, and at the very end, he finally understood the truth we're all born knowing: we're not meant to do this alone.
This is the tragedy of avoidant attachment, some people would rather die alone than admit they need anyone. They cling so tightly to their independence that real connection feels threatening. Now most people won’t take it that far, but they’ll still avoid something that really matters. the chance to be truly known by someone.
Avoidant attachment usually starts in a childhood that seems totally normal from the outside. If you ask them, a lot will say something like, "Yeah, my childhood was good. My mom made lunches, my dad took me to football games. I knew they loved me." On the surface, everything sounds fine.
But underneath all that, there's often something crucial missing, something they may not even have the words for. It isn't obvious trauma or neglect in the way we usually think of it; it's more like the entire world of emotions simply didn't exist in their household. Their parents might have been physically present, making sure they had food, got to school, and had help with homework. But when it came to feelings? That was a closed door. They simply "didn't do emotions."
Imagine a little kid falling at the playground and scraping their knee. They do what kids naturally do: they start crying because it hurts and it's scary. They look up to their mom or dad, expecting comfort, but instead, they hear, "That's just a little scrape. Quit crying. You're fine. Stop making such a scene." Instead of getting a hug, they get a lesson in toughening up. So pretty quickly, they learn crying equals bad. Feeling things out loud is not okay. You better shut that stuff down if you want to stay safe.
And that pattern sticks. These kids grow up learning to push their feelings aside and figure things out alone In their homes, if there was conflict or someone was upset, nobody talked it out. Everyone would just walk away, give each other space, and pretend it never happened. So that becomes the model: you deal with your feelings on your own, I’ll deal with mine, and eventually we’ll move on like nothing happened.
The problem is, that model doesn’t really work in close relationships. If you're going to be truly connected with someone, you have to be able to talk through the hard stuff and show up for each other emotionally. Avoidants struggle deeply with that, because it’s unfamiliar and uncomfortable.
This upbringing creates something psychologists call the "effectiveness wound." It's a deep-seated belief that having emotions or needing help means something is fundamentally wrong with you. As kids, they looked around and thought, "I seem to feel a lot, but no one else here does. Maybe I'm the problem."
That belief gets hardwired into how they function. As adults, they still carry that fear that showing vulnerability will lead to rejection or criticism. They act fiercely independent, not because they don't care, but because needing someone else feels incredibly risky. Asking for emotional support feels like waving a giant flag that says, "Hey, I’m not okay," and for them, that is an unbearably scary thing to admit.
The tough part is, the very thing they learned to do to stay safe, shutting down their emotions, is what ends up keeping them from the deep connection they actually want deep down. They actually crave closeness, but they’re scared of what it takes to get there.
This is how avoidants are shaped. They do want love, but they learned early on that showing emotions wasn’t safe.
Read More
Transcript
In 1992, a 22-year-old man named Chris McCandless walked into the Alaskan wilderness, convinced he could survive completely on his own. This was a young man who had everything going for him, he’d just graduated from Emory University, had a trust fund waiting, and a promising law career ahead. But instead, he gave away all his money, abandoned his car in the desert, and cut off every single person in his life. He told himself, that he didn't need anyone. No family. No friends. No help.
And people did try to help. Along his journey, an older man named Ron grew so fond of him that he offered to legally adopt him. A girl named Tracy fell for him and begged him to stay. Even a trucker who gave him a ride pleaded with him to at least take better gear for the harsh conditions ahead. But every single time, Chris would just say, "No thank you, I'm fine."
Four months later, his body was found in an abandoned bus in the middle of that wilderness. He had died cold, alone, and starving, weighing just 67 pounds. One of the last things he wrote in his journal was "Happiness only real when shared." He had spent his entire journey trying to prove he didn't need anyone, and at the very end, he finally understood the truth we're all born knowing: we're not meant to do this alone.
This is the tragedy of avoidant attachment, some people would rather die alone than admit they need anyone. They cling so tightly to their independence that real connection feels threatening. Now most people won’t take it that far, but they’ll still avoid something that really matters. the chance to be truly known by someone.
Avoidant attachment usually starts in a childhood that seems totally normal from the outside. If you ask them, a lot will say something like, "Yeah, my childhood was good. My mom made lunches, my dad took me to football games. I knew they loved me." On the surface, everything sounds fine.
But underneath all that, there's often something crucial missing, something they may not even have the words for. It isn't obvious trauma or neglect in the way we usually think of it; it's more like the entire world of emotions simply didn't exist in their household. Their parents might have been physically present, making sure they had food, got to school, and had help with homework. But when it came to feelings? That was a closed door. They simply "didn't do emotions."
Imagine a little kid falling at the playground and scraping their knee. They do what kids naturally do: they start crying because it hurts and it's scary. They look up to their mom or dad, expecting comfort, but instead, they hear, "That's just a little scrape. Quit crying. You're fine. Stop making such a scene." Instead of getting a hug, they get a lesson in toughening up. So pretty quickly, they learn crying equals bad. Feeling things out loud is not okay. You better shut that stuff down if you want to stay safe.
And that pattern sticks. These kids grow up learning to push their feelings aside and figure things out alone In their homes, if there was conflict or someone was upset, nobody talked it out. Everyone would just walk away, give each other space, and pretend it never happened. So that becomes the model: you deal with your feelings on your own, I’ll deal with mine, and eventually we’ll move on like nothing happened.
The problem is, that model doesn’t really work in close relationships. If you're going to be truly connected with someone, you have to be able to talk through the hard stuff and show up for each other emotionally. Avoidants struggle deeply with that, because it’s unfamiliar and uncomfortable.
This upbringing creates something psychologists call the "effectiveness wound." It's a deep-seated belief that having emotions or needing help means something is fundamentally wrong with you. As kids, they looked around and thought, "I seem to feel a lot, but no one else here does. Maybe I'm the problem."
That belief gets hardwired into how they function. As adults, they still carry that fear that showing vulnerability will lead to rejection or criticism. They act fiercely independent, not because they don't care, but because needing someone else feels incredibly risky. Asking for emotional support feels like waving a giant flag that says, "Hey, I’m not okay," and for them, that is an unbearably scary thing to admit.
The tough part is, the very thing they learned to do to stay safe, shutting down their emotions, is what ends up keeping them from the deep connection they actually want deep down. They actually crave closeness, but they’re scared of what it takes to get there.
This is how avoidants are shaped. They do want love, but they learned early on that showing emotions wasn’t safe.