why do I need constant reassurance

He was in front of me again, bringing up the same thing for what felt like the hundredth time. Almost a year together, and I was still trying my best to reassure him, because I cared about him so much. But it was always the same issue, again and again. Nothing I said seemed to last. Sometimes it helped for a little while, but then we were right back where we started.

He didn’t ask directly for reassurance. Instead, it would turn into him pushing me away, or we’d end up in an argument. It never felt like a real conversation—more like I was being tested, or blamed, or just spinning in circles. Each time, I felt more worn out. I tried to keep up, because I loved him, but it was getting harder to know what to say.

Recently, he basically ended the relationship... but not really. It was confusing. I didn’t know if we were still together or not. He didn’t say it was over, but nothing felt settled. All I knew for certain was that I couldn’t leave him. I love him too much, and I’m not going to walk away.

He’s said he cannot change. I brought up the idea of couples therapy. He said he’d be okay with it if it was through my therapist—someone who knows me and has seen me through hard times. He didn’t seem interested in starting with someone new.

I’m still trying to reassure him, even though the cycle keeps repeating. The same concerns, the same patterns, the same exhaustion. Now I’m searching for advice, asking online, hoping that maybe someone else has figured out how to make this easier.

Nothing has changed yet. The cycle keeps going. I’m still here, still tired, still not sure what will happen next.

I was at work, my phone sitting face-up on the desk, and I couldn’t stop checking it. Every few minutes, I’d unlock the screen and scan for a reply that wasn’t there. I’d had a heavy conversation with someone, and now I was waiting. The longer the silence stretched, the more impossible it became to focus on anything else. It was as if time itself slowed down, each moment measured by the absence of a message.

For the first couple of hours, I could keep it together. I’d developed some strategies over the years—muting notifications, trying to distract myself with other things. But once enough time passed, the anxiety started to build. Every minute added to the feeling until it was overwhelming. I’d start to get angry, imagining the person was doing this to me on purpose, even though I knew I couldn’t be sure of their reasons. Sometimes I pictured sending a message to cut them off completely, just to stop the feeling of being left in suspense.

When the reply finally came, I barely registered the words. The relief and exhaustion were so strong that the content of the message hardly mattered anymore, even if it was something important.

I held off on getting a smartphone until 2016, long after most people I knew had one. I always suspected it would make this kind of thing worse for me, and it did. I set up all sorts of traps to keep myself from falling into endless scrolling—no social media, no games. But none of it helped with the waiting. The problem wasn’t the content; it was the awareness that I could check for a message at any moment, and the urge to check was unstoppable.

Yesterday, my phone died while I was out for six hours. For the first time in days, I was free from the cycle. I couldn’t check if there was a message, so I stopped thinking about it. The peace was immediate and surprising. It was only then that I realized how constant my anxiety had been.

Turning off my phone isn’t really an option—I use it for podcasts while doing chores, for alarms and timers, and I read on it before bed. Besides, it’s easy to turn it back on, and I know I would.

Muting the person helps a little, since I won’t get notifications, but it doesn’t stop me from going into my messages and checking. If I’m anxious, I’ll just keep looking anyway. Blocking them doesn’t work either; I still want to see their replies, and blocking means I’d miss them.

Now I’m thinking about trying something else: using a second phone with no service for podcasts, alarms, and reading, so I can turn off my main phone and put it away when I’m home. The idea feels promising, maybe even exciting. It might let me disconnect from the waiting without giving up everything else I use my phone for.

I haven’t tried it yet. I’m asking around to see if others have dealt with this and what worked for them. I don’t know if it will work for me, or what will happen if I try. But after those six hours of peace, I know what it’s like not to be trapped by the waiting, and I want to find a way back to that.

My phone was lighting up with another message, and I knew what it would be about before I opened it. The cycle was familiar by then—every day, another round of talking, doing everything I could to make him feel okay. I loved him more than anything, and I wanted to do whatever it took to make him happy, but it was never just one conversation. It was a routine that reset every morning, no matter how much I’d poured into it the day before.

I would spend what felt like all my energy trying to reassure him. I would talk, reassure, explain, try to help him understand that things were alright. It didn’t matter how much I said or did; the next day, it was like none of it had ever happened. The effort just evaporated overnight.

He wasn’t the only person in my life who needed that kind of reassurance from me, but with him, it was relentless. It started to take a toll I couldn’t ignore. There were times when I had to step away completely—one or two weeks at a time—just to stop feeling so drained. I needed those breaks, not because I cared less, but because I was running on empty.

During those breaks, I would see posts online or hear things in therapy groups. People would say, “It’s not that hard to give you reassurance, you just don’t love them,” or, “If they need a break from you and not reassure you, they don’t really love you.” Every time, it stung. Nobody talked about the exhaustion that comes from being the one who has to reassure, the strain of trying so hard to help someone feel okay only for it to never seem like it matters the next day.

What hurt most was feeling invisible in those conversations. The world seemed to say that if you need space, you’re cold, or you don’t love enough. But I knew how much I loved him, and how hard I tried, even when it left me completely worn out.

Things aren’t as constant now, but sometimes I still need to take a break for a week or two to recover. The messages and group conversations haven’t changed; they still ignore what it’s like to be on this side. I keep loving, I keep trying, but I still see my own exhaustion go unnoticed.

He texted me while I was on my way home from our first date. Six hours together, conversation that never felt forced, and chemistry that built until we were making out at the end. I’d chosen not to go back to his place. As I left, my phone buzzed: he said he’d had a great time and would be thinking about me. We exchanged a few more messages about a show we both liked.

During the date, I told him my next free evenings would be Wednesday and Friday, since I work most nights. Monday morning, I texted him. We had a short exchange, nothing major. On Tuesday, I texted again, asking when would be best to meet up this week, and mentioned how hard it was to schedule. He replied that Friday could definitely work. That was it.

Then nothing. Two days. No texts.

My anxiety started to build. I’m someone who usually texts every day—not all day, but enough. When we’d first planned to meet, his replies hadn’t been super consistent, but this felt different. I started to wonder: was he not interested? Or is this just how some people are? My friends couldn’t agree. Some said not to worry, that it’s normal. Others said it might mean he isn’t that into me.

I drafted one: “will I be lucky enough to see you tonight or am I pushing my luck?” I couldn’t decide if it was playful or if it would make me look desperate. I didn’t want to come off as too eager. Or worse, like I was chasing someone who wasn’t interested.

So I didn’t text.

Friday morning, he texted. He said he was trying to nail down a plan and asked what time I was off work.

I thanked the group for their advice.

I was sitting on my bed, phone in hand, still riding the high from Tuesday night. It had been my first date in five years. We met in class, and for once, everything felt natural. We talked about maybe going out again. There was no kiss, but it was sweet, easy. I left feeling optimistic.

She seemed a little shy, but she was texting back. I knew I could make her laugh. I’m not bad looking, and I’ve always had a bit of charisma. I kept telling myself things were going well.

Then Friday came, and something shifted. It hit me suddenly: this anxious, gnawing certainty that I was messing things up. Maybe I’m texting too much. Maybe I’m bothering her. I started thinking, I have to get a second date set up fast or she’ll lose interest. She hadn’t really sent me anything—am I doing something wrong?

By Saturday, it all boiled over. I think I had a panic attack. The only thing running through my mind was that I was texting too much, that I was ruining things, that she’d get annoyed and it would all fall apart. I knew it was irrational. She was still responding. We were connecting more, even though she was a bit shy.

But the anxiety didn’t care. I felt silly and pathetic for reacting like this. I hated myself for letting it get so bad, for how it chipped away at my confidence. I kept thinking: it’s just texting. Why is this happening now, when everything else seems to be going right?

In person, things don’t feel like this. It’s only when I’m staring at my phone, second-guessing every word.

Now, instead of looking forward to her messages, I dread them. I’m searching for something—some way to stop overthinking, to get back to how I felt after that first date, when everything seemed possible.