The Pause That Held Us

The Season We Called Pause Instead of Goodbye
by Rebecca Townsend, with Andy by my side

There was no dramatic moment.
No slammed door.
No bags packed in a rage.

Just a quiet, painful breaking.
And a hard realization that the space between us had grown too wide to cross with good intentions and five-minute check-ins.

So we stopped living together.

Not because we stopped loving each other.

But because I couldn’t keep disappearing inside a life that looked fine on the outside but felt unbearable in my body.

I had been sick for a long time.

Long COVID hollowed me out. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually.
My immune system was blitzed. My body became reactive to nearly everything in my environment, including the historic home we’d just moved into.

No one else could smell what I smelled.
No one could taste the chemicals I tasted.
It was exhausting.

I found myself retreating more and more to our old home - the one that felt less triggering, even if it wasn’t perfect.

My nervous system stayed on high alert, always scanning for danger that might make me sicker.
I was so tired.
And in that bone-deep exhaustion, something in me went still.

The rhythm that had always kept us connected - even if imperfectly - just stopped.

I’ve always been the pursuer.
The one who reached.
The bridge-builder.
The glue.

But I couldn’t do it anymore.
Not then.

Andy, The Engineer, has always been steady. Loyal. Strong.
But his arms didn’t stretch in the direction I needed.
And mine were too weary to reach back anymore.

So I fully moved out.

Not to punish.
Not to reject.
But to survive.

I needed stillness.
I needed silence.
I needed space to hear myself think again.
I needed space to find my health and remember who I was beneath all the trying and over-functioning.

People think separation always means a fight or a failure.

But for us, it was neither.

It was a pause.

A holy one, in retrospect.

It wasn’t clean.
It wasn’t without pain.

There were days I questioned everything.
Nights I cried myself to sleep.
Moments I wished he would show up at my door and wrap me in his arms.

And moments I was grateful he didn’t.

We didn’t make grand declarations.
We didn’t tell many people.
We didn’t know what was next.

But we knew this:
If we kept pretending we were okay, we would break something permanent.

So we gave each other space.
And in that space, something softened.

This isn’t the part of the story where we come back together.

Not yet.

This is the part where we began the long, quiet work of remembering what it meant to:

• Feel
  
• Want
  
• Ask
  
• Rest
  
• Choose love. Not out of habit, but from a grounded place.
  
  

The pause wasn’t the end of our marriage.

It was the place we began again.

Every long-term love has seasons.
The slow ones. The silent ones. The ones where you’re not sure how to reach.
What matters is that you’re both still looking for the thread.
Hold onto that.

We’re holding it with you.

– Rebecca & Andy

Reflection Questions

• What parts of me have gone quiet in this relationship—not because I stopped loving, but because I stopped feeling safe or seen?
  
  
• Where have we been functioning side-by-side instead of reaching for each other? What small shift could help us reconnect, even gently?
  
  
• If we paused the patterns instead of the partnership, what new possibilities might emerge?
  
  

And a gentle but important note:

If you’re in a relationship where there is physical harm, emotional abuse, coercion, or persistent fear, please know that this kind of work is not about staying at all costs.

Love can’t grow where safety is absent.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is to name what’s not working and seek wise, professional support.

There is no shame in protecting your heart, your story, or your future.

You deserve safety, always.