The Relational Loops That Keep Us Stuck
By Walter Gramatté, Courtesy of National Gallery of Art, Washington
The people closest to you can sometimes make change harder—even when they’re genuinely trying to help.
Psychologist Paul Wachtel, in his essay in How People Change: Inside and OutsideTherapy, writes:
Maintaining a neurosis is hard, dirty work, that cannot be successfully achieved alone. To keep a neurosis going, one needs help. Every neurosis requires accomplices.
We don’t really use the word neurosis anymore, but his point still cuts through. Anxiety, burnout, depression, avoidance, addictions, unhealthy habits—whatever the struggle, it rarely survives on its own. These patterns endure because they’re reinforced in relationships by what Wachtel calls “accomplices”—a term I love because it captures the idea perfectly.
Of course, Wachtel wasn’t accusing loved ones of intentionally holding us back (though, let’s be honest, that happens too). It’s the day-to-day well-meaning responses, such as constant reassurance, stepping in to rescue, sidestepping conflict, that end up taking us back into the same cycle. And noticing how these cycles play out is an essential pice of the change process.
How the Loop Holds Us
When we think about change, our instinct is to look inward: dig into the past, unpack habits, analyse what’s “wrong”, and try to self-correct. That kind of reflection matters. But it leaves out the relational side psychological change, as well as the way many problem are sustianed. Our struggles aren’t sealed inside us. They’re shaped, encouraged, and replayed in the context of everyday interactions. Behaviour always happens in context—in relation to someone or something else. Difficulties live within those exchanges. And this is exactly why change rarely works if we treat it as a solo project.
In his model, Cyclical Psychodynamics, Wachtel explains that our fears and expectations, often rooted in earlier experiences, shape how we behave with others. Those behaviours then invite responses that, ironically, prove our fears right. Change, then, is incomplete without noticing how others get pulled into the dance and how the whole loop sustains itself.
Here’s an example. Picture someone who’s terrified of driving on highways. They might tell themselves, “This is my problem. I need to get over it.” They work on breathing techniques, maybe even go to therapy. But meanwhile, their partner kindly offers to drive every time. The offer comes from care, but it also robs them of the chance to practice, to test the fear, to learn they can handle it. Unless that relational loop—the avoidance, the accommodation, the relief—shifts, the pattern stays locked in place.
The high-achieving professional who can’t stop saying yes might trace it back to childhood messages about being dependable. But their workplace has also reinforced it: colleagues happily let them pick up the slack, and managers give the loudest praise when they “save the day.” The very system that’s burning them out keeps rewarding the behaviour.
In households where one partner is feeling depressed, the other might step in and take over everything out of love. But this well-meaning caretaking can strip away opportunities to feel capable and needed. The sense of helplessness deepens, because because agency no longer has room to grow.
Or think of the sibling who always handles family crises. Their reliability becomes the safety net. What begins as kindness turns into a trap: indispensable, but stretched thin and unseen.
Years ago, I had a client who avoided dating after a painful breakup. Whenever the idea of trying again came up, they’d say, “I don’t want to risk it.” Their friends, eager to protect them, would nod in sympathy, reassure them they were better off alone, and sweep them into fun plans to take their mind off it. The support felt caring, but what my client didn’t notice was how it also reinforced their avoidance. Each time, the relief of sidestepping intimacy made “safer alone” feel less like a choice and more like the only option.
To see Wachtel’s idea of accomplices in action, let’s follow Ethan, a student who struggles with asserting his own needs. Ethan tends to put others first, suppressing his own discomfort to avoid conflict or disappointing people. His friends and peers respond kindly, but their reactions end up reinforcing the very patterns that leave Ethan stressed and overwhelmed.
Scene: A Friday evening at a friend’s apartment
Friend (Maya): “Hey, Ethan, do you want to come see a horror movie tonight?”
Ethan: (forcing a smile) “Sure, I’d love to.” (Even though horror movies give him nightmares—he just doesn’t want to disappoint.)
Maya: “Awesome! Can’t wait!” (completely unaware of the discomfort she’s just confirmed.)
Later, at home
Ethan: (thinking to himself) “Why did I say yes? Now I’ll be up all night worrying and won’t get enough sleep for my exam tomorrow.”
Next day, study group at the library
Peer (Tarik): “Thanks for helping me review last night. You’re always so on top of things.”
Ethan: (forcing a smile again) “No problem at all.” (Grateful for the acknowledgment but silently resenting the time lost for his own work.)
Tarik: “Wow, I don’t know how you manage it all. I’d be exhausted.”
Through these small, everyday interactions, Ethan’s efforts to be agreeable draw others into supporting, and even praising, the behaviours that leave him stretched thin and anxious. His friends are responding to the cues he offers. But over time, these interactions reinforce the pattern, keeping the loops in place and making it harder for Ethan to assert himself or change the dynamic.
None of this is about blaming others for our problems. We’re still responsible for our choices. But struggles don’t exist in a vacuum. They live in the back-and-forth of relationships. When we begin to notice these dynamics, change stops being only an inner project and becomes something practiced in real time, with real people. Otherwise, even the most sincere self-work risks pulling us back into the same loops.
Wachtel’s idea of accomplices has a close parallel in clinical research: symptom accommodation. This is when family members or partners, in an effort to help, adjust their own behaviour around someone’s struggles—driving instead of letting an anxious person practice, changing routines to avoid stress, offering constant reassurance, or steering clear of triggers. It shows up across conditions like social anxiety, OCD, and eating disorders. The intention is care, but the effect is the opposite: accommodation creates a cycle that removes chances to face distress and build tolerance. Without those opportunities, symptoms tend to stick—and and sometimes even worsen. Studies on anxiety consistently find that the more loved ones accommodate, the more symptoms persist, and the less effective treatments become.
Part of the difficulty is how ordinary these patterns feel. Of course the anxious partner gets driven; it seems practical. Of course the overcommitted colleague steps in; it seems responsible. Of course the depressed partner gets cared for; it seems kind. What we don’t notice is how the relief, the gratitude, the absence of conflict are also reinforcing the problem. The “accomplices” in our lives are rarely acting out of harm—they’re often trying to help or just taking the path of least resistance. That’s what makes these loops so subtle: they’re sustained by everyday exchanges that look feel until you, and they, know how to spot them.
What Breaks the Pattern
So what does this mean for change? Simply put, struggles are rarely created alone, and they rarely get undone alone. Personal responsibility still matters—but for deeper patterns, change also requires learning to relate differently and inviting others to respond differently. Lasting change happens when both sides of the loop shift.
A useful question is: how might other people’s reactions be helping my difficulties persist? Maybe it’s a protective partner who spares you discomfort but also spares you growth. Maybe it’s colleagues who admire your reliability but make it impossible to say no. Maybe it’s your parents who repeatedly check whether the doors are locked but reinforce your compulsions. Acts of love, habits of avoidance, everyday reinforcements—all well-intentioned—can keep a problem intact.
Breaking these loops means experimenting with new ways of relating. For the anxious person, it might be asking a partner to stay nearby but not take over. For the people-pleaser, it might mean practicing how to sit through the awkward silence after saying no.
But, as I wrote about in an earlier post, change often comes with resistance. Part of the price of growth is facing pushback. At first, others may react with surprise or even irritation; only later, once they’ve adjusted, does the new pattern start to hold (though some may never fully accept or adapt). The person who’s always agreeable, for instance, has earned acceptance by never rocking the boat. When they finally assert themselves, people may respond: “We don’t mind that from others, but we didn’t expect it from you.”
That doesn’t mean loved ones should stop caring. What it means is that care may need to take a new shape, because change is harder when those around us keep pulling us back into the old story. Real support is standing close while someone learns they can handle it. If someone longs to feel capable, the most helpful response isn’t to keep stepping in, but to resist that pull and let them try. Relationships can either recycle old patterns or become the ground where new ones take root.
Therapy is one of the few places where these dynamics can be deliberately interrupted. A therapist can easily slide into the role of accomplice—reassuring, protecting, going along with the familiar. But a good therapist resists that pull. At first, this can feel uncomfortable, even unsettling: less protective, less soothing, less familiar. But that discomfort is the point. It’s what makes the relationship corrective instead of repetitive.
Although it’s harder to recreate the same opportunities in everyday life as in therapy, it’s still worth trying with partners, friends, family. We need to invite others to relate to us differently and learn to tolerate the bumps as everyone adjusts. For example, going back to the Ethan example, maybe he starts to see the accomplices: Maya’s excitement when he agrees to the horror movie, Jared’s praise when he helps the night before an exam, even the awkward silence when he tries to assert himself. Maybe he experiments. He tells Maya he’ll skip the movie. He sets a limit with Jared on how long he can help. Maybe he worries he’s letting people down. Nothing explodes, but the discomfort is real—and that’s the point. Loops don’t usually break cleanly.
Seeing the accomplices in our lives is a sign of understanding that we’re wired for relationship, and that growth usually happens in relationship too.
As Paul Wachtel writes in Action and Insight:
Self-knowledge, from an interpersonal perspective, is knowledge not just of one's warded-off wishes, thoughts, and feelings, but of the interpersonal situations that give rise to such psychological events. It includes very centrally understanding not only of the impact that particular interactions have on one's own psychological state, but of one's impact on others (which in turn feeds back, through their behavior in relation to oneself, to affect one's own sense of self—usually in a way that again keeps the entire pattern going).