10/14/2026
2. Buried Volcanic Material Sends Out Eruption Warnings ... Even When We Don't Recognize Them
“I don't MEAN to have no empathy,” he finally admitted. “I just don't.” He looked down. “And I don't mean to be grouchy, either. It just happens.”
Then he described a pattern I hear far too often. “I feel bad about it, so I go hide in front of the news or sports. Then I try to say something nice to her ... and she doesn't want to hear it.”
There it was. A man who didn't want to hurt his wife. A wife who was being hurt anyway. And two people growing increasingly lonely inside what he called a pretty good life.
I asked him to imagine a volcano. Long before an eruption, there can be activity beneath the surface. Pressure builds. The ground shifts. Gases escape. Heat increases.
There may be warning signs that something is happening deep inside, even when the mountain looks relatively peaceful from a distance. Our emotional lives can sometimes work in similar ways.
Unresolved hurt doesn't always announce itself by saying: “Hello! I'm the shame you've carried since childhood!” Or: “Good morning! I'm the rejection you never processed!”
Wouldn't that make my job easier? Instead, distress may emerge through irritability.
Defensiveness.
Emotional withdrawal.
Impatience.
Criticism.
Controlling behavior.
An inability to receive affection.
Or difficulty offering empathy when someone we love desperately needs it.
These behaviors don't prove that trauma is underneath. But they can be signals worth exploring. And here's the tragedy.
Sometimes the very behaviors we developed to protect ourselves become the behaviors that wound the people we love.
A person who learned that vulnerability leads to humiliation may avoid emotionally intimate conversations. A person who grew up surrounded by criticism may hear even a gentle request as an accusation. A person who learned that emotions create chaos may retreat into work, television, sports, or silence whenever feelings enter the room.
They may believe they're keeping the peace. Avoiding an argument. Protecting their spouse from their frustration. Or protecting themselves from another experience of failure.
But the spouse may experience something entirely different.
Rejection.
Disinterest.
Loneliness.
The painful feeling of being married to someone who is physically present but emotionally unreachable. And over time, the withdrawing partner often becomes lonely, too.
He may not know how to move toward connection. She may no longer trust his attempts. So he retreats further. She protests louder. And both begin believing the other is the problem.
My client thought his occasional kind words should repair the damage. But his wife was apparently asking for something much deeper than a nice comment.
She wanted access to HIM. His presence. Not his public charm. Not his occasional compliments. Not his explanation that he'd had a long day. HIM. The person behind the wizard curtain.
I told him something I hoped he'd remember: “You may not intend to keep your wife at a distance. But the distance is still real. And your intentions don't erase her loneliness.”
He became very quiet. Then he asked: “So what am I supposed to do with that?” Now we were getting somewhere. Because the answer wasn't to shame him. Or excuse him. Or simply tell him to try harder to be nice.
The answer was to begin exploring what made emotional closeness feel so difficult ... and to help him develop new ways of responding. Which brings me to the bridge.
