When Resentment Becomes Reality: Breaking the Cycle That Destroys Love

Resentment doesn't scream. It simmers.

It starts small—a missed text, a tone too sharp, a forgotten birthday. You shrug it off. But you don’t forget. Over time, those little pains gather in the shadows of the relationship. They harden into something heavier, stickier: resentment. And then the big ones start creeping in.

Like the feeling that your voice doesn’t matter. That you’re not really being heard. That when you speak from your heart, your partner tunes out—or worse, turns it against you.

Or the aching realization that you’re becoming invisible in your own relationship. That your needs, your efforts, your quiet hopes go unnoticed, unacknowledged.

These are not loud betrayals. They are slow disappearances.

And when those deeper hurts—feeling unseen, unheard, unimportant—start to stack on top of the everyday slights, the emotional weight becomes harder to carry.

Resentment doesn’t just sit there. It starts coloring everything you see. Every interaction becomes filtered through the lens of what’s missing, not what’s present.

Even a neutral gesture starts to feel loaded.
Even kindness feels too little, too late.

The Bias That Builds a Wall

Even when they try to show up now, their efforts are seen through the historical lens of your pain.
A soft word sounds scripted. An apology feels like manipulation.
You don’t feel safe enough to trust it. You don't believe it's real.

That’s what resentment does—it creates confirmatory bias.
You start filtering your partner’s actions through the lens of your hurt.
If they bring you coffee, it’s not sweet—it’s to shut you up.
If they forget to call, it’s not absentmindedness—it’s proof they don’t care.
Every gesture becomes more evidence that you are unloved, unseen, or unimportant.

And over time, that lens makes repair feel impossible—even when both people are still hoping, still trying, still aching for connection.

This is when Negative Sentiment Override (a term coined by psychologist Dr. John Gottman) kicks in. It’s like flipping a switch: instead of giving your partner the benefit of the doubt, you start assuming the worst. Even neutral or positive interactions get filtered through a negative emotional lens. Love gets rewritten as neglect. Closeness becomes suffocation.

And so begins the dance.

Attack and Withdraw: The Death Spiral of Connection

Resentment rarely stays silent. It shows up as sarcasm, stonewalling, criticism, or coldness. One partner attacks—"You never listen," "You always put yourself first." The other withdraws—checking out, going silent, shutting down. Or worse, they counterattack.

The more one attacks, the more the other retreats. The more the other retreats, the more abandoned and enraged the first feels. It’s a loop. And unless something disrupts it, it becomes the new normal. Conversations become battles. Vulnerability becomes dangerous.

The Hidden Cost: Suffering in Silence

Here’s the part we often miss: The person holding resentment isn’t just angry. They’re in pain.

Living with unspoken resentment is like drinking poison every day and expecting your partner to feel it. It makes you feel isolated, unseen, bitter. You fantasize about being understood, about your partner suddenly "getting it," changing, apologizing. But that rarely happens. And so, the suffering grows.

You may even grieve the loss of the relationship while still being in it. You miss the softness, the laughter, the safety you once felt. But you don’t know how to get back. And often, you don’t believe you can.

So What Can You Do?

The truth is, resentment won’t go away on its own. Waiting for your partner to change is a losing game. The change has to start with you—not because it’s your fault, but because it’s your power.

1. Name the Resentment

Start by getting honest with yourself. What exactly are you holding onto? Is it one big betrayal or a thousand paper cuts? Write it down. Speak it out loud. Give your resentment a name so it stops haunting the background.

2. Challenge the Narrative

When you feel resentment rise, ask: "What else could be true?" Maybe your partner didn’t mean to hurt you. Maybe they’re overwhelmed, scared, or disconnected too. This isn’t about excusing behavior; it’s about making space for complexity. Your partner is not the villain of your story. They’re a flawed, struggling human—just like you.

2a. Ask Yourself: Is This a Story My Partner Can Actually Change?

Resentment often builds around a story we keep repeating in our minds—"They never make me feel seen," or "They don’t care about my needs." But sometimes, that story becomes so fixed, so deeply woven into our emotional landscape, that we stop questioning it.

Take a moment to ask yourself:

• Is the story I’m telling myself still true—or is it stuck in a past version of them?

• Am I asking them to fix something they don’t know how to fix?

• Am I waiting for them to become someone they’ve never been able to be?

This doesn’t mean your pain is invalid. It means you pause to examine the weight you’re carrying, and whether the version of your partner in your mind still matches who they are today—or if you’re holding them hostage to a hurt they may not even fully understand.

Self-reflection is not about blame—it’s about regaining your agency.

It’s about asking: What am I expecting? Is it realistic? Is it clearly expressed?
And: If they cannot meet this need—can I accept that? Can I grieve it, or find another way to get it met?

Not all resentments are fair. Not all expectations are possible. But when we clarify what’s ours, what’s theirs, and what lives in the space between, we begin to release the grip of resentment—and step toward a more honest relationship.

3. Share the Hurt, Not the Blame

Instead of saying, "You never support me," try: "I’ve been feeling alone, and I miss feeling like we’re on the same team."

This is vulnerability, not weakness. It invites connection. Blame pushes people away; sharing hurt opens the door to repair.

4. Break the Attack-Withdraw Cycle

If you’re the attacker, pause. Breathe. Ask yourself what you’re really needing. If you’re the withdrawer, resist the urge to shut down. Stay in the room. Say, "I want to understand, but I feel overwhelmed right now. Can we slow down?"

These micro-shifts can interrupt the loop and create space for a new kind of interaction.

5. See Your Partner With New Eyes

Try this: imagine your partner as a little kid. Scared. Trying their best. Missing the mark. Can you feel a flicker of tenderness?

Resentment dehumanizes. It paints your partner in black-and-white. But relationships live in the grey. When you remember your partner’s humanity, you soften. And softness is the soil where love regrows.

6. Seek Repair, Not Resolution

You don’t have to agree on everything. You don’t have to solve every fight. What matters is how you come back to each other. Gottman calls this "repair attempts"—the little gestures that say, "We’re still in this."

It could be a touch. A joke. A deep breath and an "I'm sorry." It could be bringing to life and putting into action what your partner wants and needs. What matters is the intention: to reconnect.

Final Thoughts: The Door Back to Each Other

Resentment is a signal. It means something hurts. It means something needs attention. But if you let it build unchecked, it will distort your view, drive disconnection, and eventually, destroy what you once cherished.

You don’t have to stay stuck.

You can name your pain. You can soften your heart. You can choose to see your partner not as the enemy, but as someone who might also be lost, scared, or trying.

Repair is possible. Love, the kind that lasts, isn’t about perfection. It’s about choosing to begin again—together.

Into Thin Air, Into Ourselves: What Trekking to Everest Base Camp Taught Me

There’s something strange about walking toward the tallest mountain in the world. You think it’ll be about the height — about standing in the shadow of Everest and checking off a bucket-list achievement. But it’s not. Not really. It’s about what happens when you strip away comfort, certainty, and ego — and keep walking anyway.

I trekked to Everest Base Camp with 17 people last month. Some were strangers at the start. By the end, they were family. Each one carried their own reasons for being there, quite silently, if I may say so — curiosity, ambition, friendships, bucket list item, grief, healing, challenge, celebration. But we all walked the same trail. We all faced the same altitude, the same cold, the same aching legs and restless, sleepless nights. And in that shared hardship, something unspoken happened.

It wasn’t just a trek. It was a mirror.

The Himalayas don’t care who you are. They don’t care about your resume, your titles, your fitness levels, your goals. Out there, everything’s stripped down. You get tired fast. Your body rebels. Your mind plays tricks. You feel everything — the silence, the doubt, the rawness of being so far from everything familiar. There’s no room to fake it.

At 17,598 feet, you learn a lot about who you really are. And the transformation makes you carry those life lessons with you.

Lesson 1: When Plans Fall Apart, Stay Flexible.

We thought we were ready. We had trained, packed, double-checked our gear, weighed it to ensure that it met the permissible limit. The itinerary was tight, the excitement high. We left around 1 AM from Kathmandu on April 17th, on a bumpy 6-hour bus ride to Ramechhap Airport to catch the flight to Lukla from where the trek started.

All of us were squealing in excitement, posing for pictures as we were about to board the tiny 20-seater plane for our 18 minute ride to Lukla. Till the moment we were told that Lukla airport had shut down because of high winds.

We waited. For ten hours.

All of us in our EBC t-shirts, waiting patiently for our flight to take off for Lukla.

Flights to Lukla are always a gamble — the world’s most unpredictable weather, the world’s most dangerous runway (It’s true!). But when you're stuck in a tiny airport for hours with no real updates, it hits different. We sat there trying to stay hopeful, some slept off their jetlag on the benches, some prayed, and some of us just waited patiently because that is what we have learnt about the mountains. They will let you pass when they want to. Eventually, when we finally learnt that no flights would take off, we called it a night and slept at a nearby very basic hotel.

That was supposed to be day one of our trek.

And in that long, frustrating day, we learned our first mountain lesson: you’re not in control.

Out there, nothing runs on your schedule. The weather shifts without warning. The mountain follows its own rhythm — steady, ancient, unmoved by our plans. You can prepare all you want, but the trail often has other ideas. You can either resist and exhaust yourself, or learn to adjust, let go, and move with it. Letting go of the plan didn’t mean letting go of the goal. It just meant learning to bend. To wait. To breathe through the mess. And honestly, that skill ended up being more important than any piece of gear we packed.

Lesson 2: Comfort is overrated. Growth lives in the stretch.

When we left Lukla, that tiny runway clinging to a cliffside, I still had a trace of that “I got this” confidence. But as the days stacked up — each one harder, each one longer, each one colder, with lesser oxygen at higher altitudes — that confidence turned into something quieter. Not less powerful. Just more honest.

On our way to Namche Bazaar

Climbing higher, you sleep less. You eat less. You walk for hours in thin air. And the creature comforts start vanishing — showers, attached toilets with running water, warm beds, clean clothes. There’s no hiding from discomfort. But that’s the gift. Because what replaces it is something far more powerful: stillness, silence, and views so vast they feel almost unreal.

The turquoise ribbon of the Dudh Koshi River roaring below suspension bridges and carving through deep valleys; ancient chortens standing silent along the trail, draped in prayer flags; lines of engraved manis — stone tablets etched with sacred mantras — guiding our steps like quiet sentinels; snow-dusted peaks, with my favorites being Ama Dablam, Lhotse, and of course sneak peaks of Mt. Everest, stretching beyond the clouds. The winds felt like whispers from something older than time. Surrounded by that kind of beauty, you stop missing the comforts. They start to feel irrelevant. What fills you instead is awe — and a quiet sense that maybe, this is what we’re built for.

You realize how much of life is built around avoiding discomfort — air conditioning, food delivery, instant gratification, always having a screen to reach for, never having to be truly alone with your thoughts. But on this trek, discomfort is the price of admission. And once you stop resisting it, it transforms. It becomes a teacher. You learn that you don’t need as much as you thought. You learn that your body can do more. Your mind too. You learn how to sit with yourself — without the buzz, without the feed — and find something steady there.

Comfort zones are safe, but they’re small. The world is not.

Lesson 3: Everyone’s carrying something — and most of it’s invisible.

Among the 17 of us, we had a wide mix — different ages, backgrounds, stories. Most were friends, and I was meeting everyone for the first time. I’ll admit, I was a little apprehensive at first — the only one who didn’t already know the group. But that feeling disappeared almost as soon as introductions were made. The group was warm, friendly, and super fun. There was no awkwardness, just easy energy and laughter. The trail flattened all the differences anyway. One step at a time, we got to know each other. And slowly, the layers came off.

Our gang in high spirits, leaving Namche onwards to Debouche.

I saw people struggle. I saw some fall sick, I saw people break — and then keep walking. I saw quiet strength in the ones who never complained, even when it hurt. At the tea house in the evenings, we all came together — playing games, singing songs, reciting poetry, sharing snacks, laughing until our faces hurt. There was no pressure, no pretense. Just people showing up as they were. Those moments — simple, joyful, completely unfiltered — did more than pass the time. They deepened the bonds. By the time we hit the harder parts of the trail, we weren’t just trekking beside each other — we were looking out for each other.

You don’t need Wi-Fi to connect. You just need presence.

The acclimatization hike to Nangarshang Summit. We started from those tiny green settlements that you see on the left by the river :)

Lesson 4: Some things are worth the extra effort — especially the meaningful ones.

The day we trekked to Namche was one of the longest. It tested us. We were on our feet for nearly 12 hours — a demanding climb followed by an acclimatization hike after barely an hour of rest. My body was tired. My legs were done. Most would have called it a day right there.

But I had something on my mind — a painting.

There was a local artist in Namche I stumbled upon. I wanted to ask him for a custom piece — a painting of me walking towards Mt. Everest on a suspension bridge, something personal that could carry the spirit of this journey home with me. The only material thing I pursued on the entire trek. Not a souvenir. A symbol.

The EBC wall behind my work station :)

So, despite the fatigue and the pouring rain that evening, I made the effort to go there once everyone was settling into the warmth of the tea house. I went to see him that evening, spoke to him about what I had in mind, and placed my request. It was such a small act, but it felt meaningful — because it wasn’t about the object. It was about honoring the experience. About taking something back that wasn’t mass-produced or mindlessly bought, but thoughtfully chosen. A reflection. A memory. A feeling on canvas.

That painting isn’t just about Mt. Everest. It’s the 12-hour day and the ones following. The ache in my legs. The determination. The joy. The whole journey, distilled into color and line.

Sometimes the things that stay with us aren’t things at all. They’re stories. And sometimes, we’re lucky enough to bring those stories home — not for the world, but for ourselves. It hangs on the wall in my work space, along with my certificate, medal, and two pictures from the group at the base camp. I smile each time I turn to that wall to catch a breather between sessions.

Lesson 5: Dig deeper. There’s always more in the tank.

I never wanted to give up — not once. But there were moments when it got really, really hard. One of the toughest was the steep ascent up Thukla Pass. The terrain was relentless — a switchback trail of loose rock and uneven boulders, climbing sharply with no real break. The air was thin, the wind had a bite, and the path felt like it was going straight up. Every breath took effort. Every step asked a little more.

The climb up to Thukla.

There was no rhythm, no glide — just grit. And somewhere in the middle of that climb, I started to feel it. Not the urge to quit, but the full weight of how much energy it took just to keep going.

But then we reached the Everest Memorials — a quiet, humbling place where stone cairns and plaques honor the climbers and sherpas who never made it back. And suddenly, the struggle of the climb faded into something deeper. The exhaustion mixed with reverence. Grief. Gratitude. Perspective.

I took this photo of a plaque at the Everest memorial to read it later. And once I did, I was stunned that the memorial was for a person who had a degenerative spinal cord injury— an area that I have worked most of my life in.

You stand there, wind whipping through prayer flags, surrounded by reminders of both ambition and loss — and it shifts something inside you. You dig deeper, not out of pride, but out of respect. Out of heart. Out of the realization that being there — breathing that air, standing on your own two feet — is a gift.

And that’s when I truly understood: strength isn’t about charging through. It’s about choosing, over and over, to keep showing up. Especially when it’s hard. Especially when it hurts.

We all had our version of that moment. And we all made it. Not because it got easier. But because we found something steady inside ourselves and kept walking.

There’s more in us than we think. Sometimes, it takes a mountain to show us.

Lesson 6: The summit isn’t the point. The journey is.

When we finally reached the Everest Base Camp — 5,364 meters/17,598 feet above sea level — there was no epic fanfare. No fireworks. Just prayer flags, rocks, wind, and a sign that I thought read “Everest Base Camp.” And yet, it felt huge. Not because of the place. But because of what it took to get there.

But there was something sobering too. The famous base camp rock — the one people trek for days to see — had been defaced. Someone had scrawled over it in red graffiti, signaling “NO Everest Base Camp” and replacing it with “Chomolungma Base Camp.” It was jarring. Not because Chomolungma (the Tibetan name for Everest) doesn’t deserve its place — it absolutely does — but because of how it was done.

The moment at the rock!

A sacred spot, a hard-earned destination for thousands of trekkers, altered by one person’s need to make a point with a can of spray paint. It was a reminder — even here, in a place where nature is at its most humbling, humans still bring their ego.

We come to these mountains hoping to be transformed. But sometimes, we end up trying to leave our mark instead of letting the mountain leave one on us. That rock, in its defaced state, said more about human behavior than the person who did it probably realized.

Still, that defaced rock didn’t stay with us. It was everything around it — the wind, the silence, the sheer force of the peaks above. It was Romil, the founder of Boots and Crampons, the company we trekked with, taking us beyond the usual trail to the B&C base camp, where he was leading a team to summit Mt. Everest. It was the aloo paranthas, hot tea & coffee, and a range of snacks, the warmth of welcome, and the glimpse into the lives of true mountaineers.

As we walked into the B&C tents, where we got a rare glimpse of how real mountaineers live, dine, and prepare for the climb of their lives, it was awe-inspiring — seeing the grit and focus in those tents, the temple where they pray before they start the climb, the quiet intensity in the air. You could feel the weight of determination and humility mixed together.

We posed at the rock with our medals. We hugged. We took photos, yes. But mostly, I stood in quiet awe — of the mountains, of each other, of ourselves. The summit wasn’t the reward. The journey was. The early mornings, the nightmares and the headaches, the jarring push out of our comfort zones, where we encouraged each other along the way, cracked jokes at dinner, and had those shared moments in cold tea houses. That was the treasure.

Life isn’t made in the peak moments. It’s made in the steps that lead to them.

We did it!!

Lesson 7: Persistence changes you — quietly, completely.

Life has its fair share of ups and downs. For many of us, the past few years have cracked open things we thought were solid — routines, relationships, careers, identities. There were moments where just getting through the day felt like a climb. That weight came with me to the Himalayas. Maybe it came with others too, unspoken but real.

Trekking to Everest Base Camp didn’t erase that pain. But it reframed it.

Every hard step on the trail reminded me of the hard days I’d already survived and triumphed — the ones back home when life felt stuck, uncertain, or unfair. And with every mile we climbed, I saw it clearly: I had already been climbing, long before I reached the mountain. We all had.

There’s something sacred about persistence. Not the loud kind. The quiet, stubborn kind that says, I’m still here. The kind that keeps going even when nobody’s watching, even when it would be easier to give in, give up, or go numb.

This trek didn’t just ask me to persist — it showed me that I already knew how.

I’ve found more strength than I knew I had. More courage than I gave myself credit for. Not because I made it to Base Camp — but because I showed up when I didn’t have to. Because I kept walking through the fog, the fatigue, and the fear.

Lesson 8: Respect the team you don’t always see.

With Rinji and Dendi, our amazing sherpas. Dendi has featured in the movie “Everest” and has climbed the peak an astonishing 4 times!

It’s easy to romanticize a trek like this — the peaks, the personal breakthroughs, the sense of achievement. But the truth is, none of it would have been possible without the Sherpas, porters, and yak shepherds who carried the real weight of our journey. They moved ahead of us and behind us, often unseen, hauling gear, securing routes, managing logistics like meals and stay, and doing it all with quiet strength and grace.

Our team of sherpas led by Dendi (a 4 time Everester), Rinji, & Sange were incredible. They didn’t ask for praise. They didn’t slow down. They just showed up, every single day, making the impossible feel manageable. And often encouraging us to just keep moving, despite the fatigue, and whatever other challenges we were facing.

It struck me hard — the quiet dignity with which they worked. And it hurt to see how at the end of the trek some of their efforts went unrecognized. Some personal porters were tipped rather poorly and you could see the look of disappointment on their faces. That stayed with me. Because this team — the one we often forget to thank — is what makes the trip possible. They’re the backbone, the heart, the unsung soul of the journey.

The lesson? Gratitude isn’t just about what you feel — it’s about what you do. A thank-you. A fair tip. A moment of acknowledgment. These aren’t small things. They’re the very least we can offer to those who carry more than we’ll ever know — both literally and figuratively. They remind us that true strength is often quiet. And that the people who support us in the background deserve to be brought to the front.

If you ever trek these trails, tip well. Thank often. Remember who carried you.

Lesson 9: The way back can be just as meaningful.

Tannu and me :)

Of the 16 who reached Base Camp, only two of us — Tannu and I — chose to return to the start on foot. And it turned out to be one of the most special parts of the trek.

By then, we were fully acclimatized. There was no pressure, no group schedule to stick to even though we were very disciplined and punctual and did not give our trek leader, my dear friend Chetan, any grief. We walked at our own pace, pausing for tea, coffee, cake, and doughnuts at quiet little teahouses and cafes that felt like secrets hidden along the trail. The air felt easier. The views, somehow, looked even more beautiful on the way down — like we were finally seeing them with rested eyes and open hearts.

Circled back to Lukla, where we started.

What made it even better was the quiet companionship. Tannu and I were on the same wavelength — sharing long stretches of silence, pausing for conversations when they naturally bubbled up, and giving each other space when needed. There was no need to fill the silence. The mountains did that for us.

Coming back down, it wasn’t just the altitude we left behind — it was noise, ego, urgency. I noticed how differently I was moving through the world. Slower. Lighter. More tuned in. The mountain had stripped away the clutter. And with every step down, it was like I was walking back into myself.

I didn’t want to “return to normal.” I wanted to carry this version of me forward — more aware, more grateful, more strong, more alive.

Lesson 10: These journeys change you — in ways you don’t always have words for.

Every trek leaves its mark, but some leave something more — a shift deep inside. With each adventure like this, I find myself becoming a little stronger. A little quieter. A little simpler. The noise of the world fades. The relentless need to prove, perform, accumulate — it all softens. Something in the mountains strips that away.

There’s no audience out there. No roles to play. Just you, your breath, your feet, and the trail ahead. You start letting go of what doesn’t matter. And you begin to feel what does. Connection. Resilience. Wonder. Gratitude. The sheer gift of being alive, upright, and moving forward.

It feels spiritual — not in a grand, mystical way, but in the most grounded sense of the word. Like you’ve touched something real beneath all the layers we wear in everyday life. Like the mountain helped you peel some of them off.

And when you come back, you carry that clarity with you. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just quietly — in how you speak, how you choose, how you live. Less clutter. More truth.

You come back a little more yourself.

17 people. 115 kilometers. One trail. Infinite lessons.

We came from different places, but we walked together. We suffered together. We celebrated together. And we left a part of ourselves on that mountain — and brought something bigger back.

Everest didn’t care who we were. But in trying to meet it — in walking toward it — we found out who we could be.

And that? That’s the summit I’ll never forget.