When we first fall in love, we tend to see the other person rather generously.

Their quirks are charming. Their differences are interesting. Qualities that might eventually drive us nuts can initially be part of what attracts us to them.

We also don’t know them very well.

And ambiguity allows us to imagine far more possibilities than reality allows. We fill in what we don’t know, often favorably, and create an idealized version of the person we’re falling in love with.

Eventually, of course, reality gets involved.

The spontaneous person turns out to be terrible at planning. The wonderfully careful person can be controlling. The independent person occasionally seems not to need us at all.

The conventional wisdom is that this is when mature love begins. We stop idealizing our partner, see them realistically, accept their imperfections, and get on with the serious business of having a relationship.

I’m not sure I buy it.

What’s wrong with perfect?

Nothing.

That’s why you maintain it.

From the Benefit of the Doubt to the Burden of the Doubt

Something interesting can happen as relationships age.

Early on, we tend to interpret our partner generously.

She’s busy.

He’s tired.

She probably didn’t mean it that way.

After enough disappointments and unresolved conflicts, the presumption can reverse.

She’s inconsiderate.

He’s avoiding me.

Of course she meant it that way.

We’ve gone from giving our partner the benefit of the doubt to giving them the burden of the doubt.

Once that happens, ambiguous behavior isn’t particularly ambiguous anymore. It gets recruited as evidence for what we’ve already decided about the person.

If I’ve come to believe you’re selfish, forgetting something becomes evidence that you’re selfish.

If I’ve decided you’re controlling, asking when I’ll be home becomes evidence that you’re controlling.

The spontaneous person I once admired is now irresponsible. The careful person is controlling. The independent person doesn’t care enough about me.

The person may not have changed nearly as much as the story organizing my perception of them has.

Over time, we can become as invested in our disappointment with our partner as we once were in our idealization of them.

Become Suspicious of Your Certainty

Getting back to a more positive view of your partner doesn’t mean pretending irritating behavior is delightful.

Nor does it mean overlooking incompatibility, mistreatment, or serious problems.

It might begin with something considerably smaller:

Become a little suspicious of your least generous interpretation.

Instead of:

He’s controlling.

Maybe:

That felt controlling to me. Do I know that’s what he intended?

Instead of:

She doesn’t care what I need.

Maybe:

I’m feeling disregarded. Does she understand what’s happening for me?

Sometimes you’ll discover that your interpretation was right.

But sometimes you won’t.

And when you don’t, you have to let the new information count.

When I don’t know which interpretation is true, do I tend to give the person I love the benefit of the doubt—or the burden of the doubt?

That’s not positive thinking. It’s allowing some uncertainty back into a story that may have become awfully certain.

The Problem Doesn’t Have to Become a Verdict

Imagine walking into a gym and seeing two people working with personal trainers.

One is struggling to get into shape. The other is exceptionally fit.

Which one needs the trainer?

Both.

For the person struggling, most of what they can experience right now may be the effort. They’re tired. They’re sore. Progress is slow. The reward is somewhere down the road.

The fit person across the room provides something important.

Evidence that the effort can lead somewhere.

But that person provides another kind of evidence too.

Getting there doesn’t mean you stop doing the things that got you there.

We understand why someone who’s out of shape works with a trainer. Something needs to change.

But why is the fit person still there?

Because what’s wrong with being fit?

Nothing.

That’s why you maintain it.

Relationships Have Inertia Too

“Relationships take work” is one of those things we’ve said so many times that I’m not sure it tells anyone much anymore.

Work toward what?

If you’ve been disappointed for years, communicating better can sound like another assignment. If you’ve stopped feeling close, being told to “work on the relationship” may feel like being handed a shovel without being told what you’re digging for.

Relationships can develop inertia.

You stop asking certain questions. You stop trying certain things. You know how the argument ends, so you begin halfway through it. Eventually the relationship becomes something you mostly react to rather than something you’re actively participating in.

And the reward for changing any of that may not be immediately apparent.

That’s where idealization may serve another purpose.

You need to be able to see something worth investing in.

Not necessarily the fantasy you had when you first met. Maybe just a glimpse of the person you still recognize underneath everything that’s accumulated.

Oh. There you are.

That’s what I love about you.

That’s what we’re trying to take care of.

Sometimes you have to behave differently before the relationship feels different.

You give a little more benefit of the doubt. Your partner has a little less to defend against. They respond a little differently. You notice it. Maybe they notice something different in you.

There’s a little light.

Then something else to engage with.

Then another problem to solve.

Then perhaps another facet of the person you hadn’t noticed—or hadn’t noticed in a long time.

The motivation doesn’t necessarily arrive before the engagement.

Sometimes the engagement produces the motivation.

Stay in the Game

There’s another tired metaphor about relationships: investment.

But maybe we’ve been using that one incorrectly too.

You don’t make an investment today, disappear for twenty years, come back and simply expect it to have grown.

At least not this kind of investment.

A relationship gives you something to continually engage with.

You notice what’s working. You notice what isn’t. You make adjustments. You solve a problem. Something improves. That improvement gives you something new to build on.

And because both people continue changing, there’s always something new to understand.

You stay in the game.

Not because every moment is rewarding. Not because every problem can be solved. And certainly not because staying in every relationship is virtuous.

You stay engaged because engagement is partly how you discover whether there’s still something here worth developing.

And when there is, the reward for the work becomes easier to see.

“Perfect for Me” Is a High Bar

When I say someone is “perfect for me,” I’m not saying they’re perfect.

There’s a considerable difference.

To be particularly well suited to another human being is actually a pretty high bar.

Someone has to know you. They have to understand some of your peculiarities, tolerate some, challenge others, know what matters to you, and develop a way of being with you that fits.

And you have to do the same.

That’s valuable.

But it isn’t static.

If accommodating me requires my partner to stop developing her own life, eventually I may destroy part of what I found so compelling about her in the first place.

She’s still becoming herself.

So am I.

Being perfect for each other isn’t something two people discover and then preserve in amber. It’s something they continue to maintain without requiring either person to stop becoming themselves.

That’s a much higher bar than merely staying together.

Idealization Doesn’t Have to Mean Blindness

There’s a kind of idealization that prevents us from seeing another person clearly. We overlook what we don’t want to see because reality threatens the fantasy.

That’s not what I’m talking about.

I’m talking about knowing your partner isn’t perfect. Knowing their limitations. Probably having become acquainted with several of them in impressive detail.

And still maintaining a fundamentally favorable orientation toward the person.

When their behavior is ambiguous, you lean a little toward generosity.

When they disappoint you, the disappointment doesn’t automatically become a referendum on their character.

When something goes wrong, you try to solve the problem rather than prosecute the partner.

And when they do something admirable, you let that count too.

Healthy, well-adjusted people have problems.

They solve them.

Maybe healthy relationships aren’t relationships without problems.

Maybe they’re relationships in which the problems haven’t become more important than the people solving them.

She’s Not Perfect

There’s a line I’ve always liked:

She’s not perfect, but she’s perfect for me.

I used to think the mature part of that sentence was she’s not perfect.

I’m beginning to think it’s the second half.

Perfect for me.

That means I know enough about this person to understand what I have.

I know what it takes for her to be with me. I know something about what it takes for me to be with her.

I value the particular fit we’ve created.

And because I value it, I don’t want to neglect my side of what makes it possible. I want her to continue growing in her own life, and I want to continue becoming someone who fits her well too.

That’s not fantasy.

That’s investment.

See generously. Stay engaged. Keep becoming.

Maybe the goal of a mature relationship isn’t to finally see through our idealization.

Maybe it’s to become better at deserving it.

What’s wrong with perfect?

Nothing.

That’s why you maintain it.