It was a typical weekday in our house. We were already running late for school (again) - my daughter was still half-dressed, her breakfast was somewhere between her mouth and the dogs, and I was chasing her, holding a hairbrush like it represented the last shred of hope we had of passing as a functioning family.

Let's be honest, the word "affair" often conjures images of clandestine meetings, forbidden passion, and a thrilling escape from the mundane. In the movies, it's all dramatic lighting and whispered confessions. In real life? Well, for a time, it can feel, dare I say, delicious. There's a heady cocktail of novelty, secrecy, and ego-boost that makes an affair seem like the ultimate indulgence. You're getting attention, feeling desired, perhaps even rediscovering a version of yourself you thought was lost to laundry lists and lukewarm dinners.

We live in a culture that praises boundaries and independence, but somewhere along the way, “going no contact” became confused with emotional strength. “Going no contact” is a conscious, deliberate decision to cut off all communication and contact with a person who is genuinely toxic or unsafe: an abusive ex, a parent who causes harm, an addicted sibling steals from you and refuses help. In those situations, going no contact is more than just ghosting someone. It’s not just avoidance or immaturity —it’s protection. It creates distance so healing can happen.

But what happens when cutting people off becomes a pattern—when every relationship ends the same way, with distance instead of resolution? When relational ruptures end the same way? When friendships, family relationships, or romantic partnerships repeatedly fall apart? When they don’t end with repair, conversation, or clarity—but with silence? When emotional discomfort feels intolerable, and distance becomes the default response to conflict or vulnerability? 

When people are cut off, not because they’re dangerous, but because situations become difficult or painful?

And what about the stories we tell ourselves along the way? When the narrative starts to sound oddly familiar—you as the wounded party, the other as the villain? Or when people seem to keep walking away from you? 

At that point, it’s worth asking: I am truly setting boundaries— or simply avoiding the work of relationships?