– What's your biggest flaw? 😊
My friend smiles as she reads the question on her phone.
They've been chatting on a dating app for a few weeks. She doesn't want to rush things, and he's happy to respect her boundaries. It's refreshing after months of blocking one profile after another, all those Speedy Gonzales types of the dating world she's grown so tired of.
He's serious, a little too serious perhaps, but he has a stable career and, above all, seems to have his head on his shoulders. Things are progressing slowly. She likes that. A few photos, details about their respective jobs, places they'd like to travel to, family, everyday life.
She quite likes him.
She thinks for a couple of seconds, then takes the plunge:
– I can be too direct, even blunt. I wasn't exactly born with the diplomacy gene. 😅
(…)
– Communication is important. You need to know how to choose your words, the right moment and the right way to say things.
She can't really disagree. That's precisely what she's been working on lately. Keeping her bluntness in check, avoiding those accusatory "you" statements, finding ways to offer constructive feedback to her colleagues while remaining positive. In short, thinking seven times before speaking. But keeping quiet again? Never. That she couldn't do.
She starts tapping on the little keyboard:
– I'm well awar…
A new message appears:
– You need to work on that 😊
My friend freezes, staring at her phone. Who does this guy think he is?
And you, did you spot the red flag?
Don't answer too quickly.
Because we might not all be seeing the same one.
Some will think this gentleman has crossed a line.
Why is he already telling a woman he barely knows that she needs to improve herself? Is he rigid? Controlling? Is he looking for a partner who fits precisely into his way of doing things?
Others will question my friend. What does she mean by not having the diplomacy gene? Or by being too blunt? Perhaps she's one of those people who comment on everything and anything, who boss others around, who give you a piece of their mind when nobody asked for it. Is she simply straightforward, or frankly unbearable?
And then there will be those who see nothing wrong with any of it. An ordinary conversation between two adults. One talks about her flaws. The other comments. End of story.
So where's the problem?
Perhaps that's where the real question begins.
Over the past few years, relationships have been changing. Mainly because they've come under the microscope, dissected and analysed in minute detail. What once belonged to the intimacy of a couple has become a matter for public debate, or better yet, social media. Even our vocabulary has changed radically.
Today, we have concepts that previous generations didn't have, or rarely used: coercive control, manipulation, psychological abuse, emotional dependency, personal boundaries, trauma, attachment, gaslighting, red flags.
This vocabulary has given names to situations we once considered normal.
I'm not questioning the importance of speaking out. Of course we need to talk about these things, show people that they don't have to suffer alone, help those who believe it's all happening in their heads.
It helps us understand that loving someone doesn't mean accepting everything.
Words allow us to move beyond shame and towards greater awareness.
But something else is happening alongside all this. And that's what I want to talk to you about today.
We analyse so much.
Our behaviour.
Other people's behaviour.
Our reactions to their reactions.
And sometimes even the measures we might need to take one day if they continue behaving that way.
We no longer simply meet another person. We psychoanalyse them.
It's a way of reassuring ourselves, of making sure we don't repeat the same mistakes, our own or those of all the strangers who have shared their experiences with us: YouTubers, TikTokers, bloggers, experts and countless others.
"You need to work on that" is no longer simply an awkward or irritating remark. In my friend's mind, it becomes the first episode of a future in which her partner wants to control everything.
Or, conversely, her reaction becomes evidence of an unresolved rejection wound, hypervigilance or an inability to accept criticism.
In other words, a five-minute conversation turns into a three-year scenario.
We bring our own stories. And everyone else's.
When we enter a relationship, we already bring our past with us.
Our previous relationships.
Our disappointments.
Our fears.
Our wounds.
That's already an enormous amount, when you think about it.
But today, we also carry other people's experiences.
We read personal accounts. Listen to podcasts. Watch videos. We expose ourselves to hundreds of stories about toxic relationships, manipulators, avoidant partners, narcissistic people, or relationships that seemed wonderful at first before turning destructive.
These voices are necessary. I cannot emphasise that enough.
The #MeToo movement, among others, has brought to light behaviours we had learned to minimise or keep silent about.
The problem is obviously not these testimonies.
It begins when all these experiences form a collective memory, an emotional burden we carry into every new date.
We no longer have to deal only with our own fears.
We also have to exorcise those that other people's stories have planted within us.
A man is persistent?
Watch out for controlling behaviour.
He's extremely attentive from the very first date?
Love bombing?
He starts pulling away?
Avoidant attachment?
He criticises something about you?
Is it just an isolated remark, or is he already trying to mould you into someone else?
These are, nevertheless, very good questions.
But when we ask them about everything, in every circumstance, it becomes difficult to tell when we're genuinely observing someone and when we're searching for symptoms of what we desperately want to avoid experiencing.
Toxic, narcissistic, avoidant…
There's something else that bothers me about the casual use of certain words.
"Toxic", for example.
A relationship can be bad without being toxic.
It can be unbalanced.
It can become exhausting.
Two people can hurt each other because they're incapable of communicating properly.
That doesn't necessarily mean one of them is a monster.
The same goes for the expression "narcissistic abuser".
It's everywhere on the internet. Our exes, our bosses, they're all narcissists. Some genuinely are, there's no doubt about that.
Yet not every self-centred person is a narcissistic abuser. Not every isolated act of manipulation amounts to systematic coercive control. Not every difficult partner is dangerous.
By using the same words to describe very different realities, we create a double effect, often without realising it.
We trivialise the most serious situations.
And we begin looking at ordinary relationships as though they could threaten our inner peace or personal integrity at any moment.
Then another demand entered the picture.
And now, work on yourself.
Heal your wounds.
Learn to set boundaries.
Understand your patterns.
Become emotionally independent.
And finally, everything will fall into place.
The right person will come into your life.
It's an appealing idea. Yet it looks suspiciously like a carrot dangling from a stick.
It gives us the impression that love will eventually become simple once we've done enough work on ourselves. And then it becomes almost impossible to stop when we've come this far. Everything gets drawn into the process: therapy, healing emotional wounds, videos, personal testimonies and even astrology.
Working on ourselves sometimes seems easier than working together on a relationship. The first gives us a sense of control. The second requires taking a risk: trusting someone we will never be able to control.
But is it really true that once we're healed, everything works out? Yes, regaining confidence can open doors. We learn to distance ourselves from people who drain our energy, we become more selective, we feel lighter.
But what about romantic relationships? When we want to build a new life with someone, because loneliness, once we've healed, still looks exactly like that, whatever we do: loneliness.
Because the truth is, getting to know ourselves is the work of a lifetime. It never ends. We don't wake up one morning thinking the world is perfect and we've finally reached the summit we dreamed of.
A wound we've understood may reappear in another form.
We thought we were suffering from abandonment.
Then one day we discover that what hurts the most isn't someone turning their back on us.
It's someone staying while making us feel that we're never quite what they hoped for.
Calmer.
More flexible.
More available.
Less intense.
More diplomatic.
Less of this.
More of that.
So we go back to working on ourselves.
Again.
"You need to work on that"
And this brings me back to my friend.
What bothered her about that conversation wasn't that a man had become fixated on one of her flaws.
She already knew about it.
Nor is she expecting to meet someone who will constantly tell her how wonderful she is.
She knows perfectly well that a partner will eventually find some of her habits unbearable.
And she'll find some of his equally infuriating.
That's part of the spice of being a couple.
If we were perfectly suited to each other, things would quickly become boring.
Everyday life together also consists of little irritations, compromises, silly arguments and silences that last too long. It moves from "kiss me" to "you're really getting on my nerves today".
Love doesn't erase the other person's flaws. If we're lucky, it allows us to live with them.
And this is where the boundary begins to emerge.
Because there's a difference between telling someone:
"When you speak to me like that, it hurts."
And solemnly announcing:
"You need to work on the way you communicate."
The first sentence describes what is happening between two people. Emotions, trauma, routine, the friction between egos.
The second begins to define what the other person ought to become in order to be acceptable.
It may seem insignificant.
Yet it is precisely in these nuances that the essential difference lies.
The uncomfortable word
Acceptance.
That word has become almost suspicious.
We've learned so much about setting boundaries that "accepting the other person" can feel like going back to a time when people kept quiet about everything for the sake of the relationship. For the children. For the family. Because speaking out simply wasn't done.
Accepting someone doesn't mean accepting violence, whether physical or psychological.
Nor humiliation.
Nor coercive control.
Nor giving up who you are.
Acceptance means knowing that the other person will have flaws, little habits that, sooner or later, may drive us absolutely mad.
Because we won't understand them. Because we're not that person.
With their passions that leave us completely indifferent.
Their reactions that irritate us.
And despite all that, still being able to think:
"Yes. They can be a real pain in the arse. But God, we have such a laugh together."
Without immediately turning every difference into a self-improvement programme.
What if we don't understand each other?
We talk a lot about compatibility.
Compatible values.
Plans.
Expectations.
It matters. Of course it does.
But I'd add something even more essential: openness.
The other person doesn't need to agree with all our passions.
Much less share them.
Someone may know absolutely nothing about painting, photography, quantum mechanics or Japanese gardening.
It doesn't matter.
Openness begins with:
"I don't really follow what you're saying, but I can see that it matters to you. Tell me more."
And it works both ways.
The other person must also be able to say one day:
"I'm feeling a bit lost here. Can we talk about something else?"
Without that boundary being interpreted as rejection.
A relationship doesn't need two identical people.
It needs enough room for each person to continue existing. In their own imperfect way.
What if it still hurts?
This is probably where my question became more uncomfortable for my friend.
In trying so hard to avoid destructive relationships, are we now trying to escape any relationship that might cause us pain?
Because loving someone makes us vulnerable.
Always.
Even when we understand our wounds.
Even when we know how to set boundaries.
Even when we've read every book in the world about human relationships.
We're capable of making mistakes.
Of trusting someone who will disappoint us.
We can fall in love with someone who, over time, turns out not necessarily to be toxic, but simply incompatible with us.
We can also hurt that person without meaning to.
Self-awareness doesn't make us perfect. Far from it.
And thankfully so.
Such perfection would stand in the way of love.
So, what about the red flag?
Was my friend right? Was she right to walk away without trying to find out more?
Was this man simply clumsy with his words?
Or a little too rigid in his expectations?
Perhaps, a few months later, she would have discovered that he was actually capable of accepting her differences.
Or perhaps not.
What I did see, however, was her overwhelming fear. The questions racing through her mind, the scenarios unfolding.
Because she knows. She knows what is acceptable to her and what isn't. She knows all the concepts.
Coercive control.
Emotional wounds.
Relationship dynamics.
The boundaries to set. Diplomatically, if possible.
Then came the doubts and the self-questioning.
I'm not disputing everything she's learned.
But I do wonder what we're doing with all this knowledge about ourselves and relationships.
How can we remain clear-sighted without turning every encounter into a risk assessment?
How can we work on ourselves without eventually believing that everything which bothers another person can, and must, be corrected?
How can we recognise a genuine warning sign without treating every human flaw as the opening chapter of a future toxic relationship?
And above all:
How can we learn to love someone imperfect when we've become so good at spotting red flags?
Perhaps the answer isn't to become less aware.
Perhaps we need to try to remain open without being blind.
To set boundaries without building walls.
And to accept that loving someone also means encountering everything about them that will never be quite as we imagined.
Because deep down, we expect the very same thing in return.
To be loved for our imperfections, too.
I'll leave you with one final thought, which, to me, sums up a relationship that works:
Tell each other to piss off if you have to, but never forget to say "I love you".
