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Trying to prove I've changed, but nothing feels enough

Ask Ash

It's been four months since my partner found out I'd been lying about where I was spending money—basically hiding a gambling problem I thought I had under control. They didn't leave, which honestly surprised me, but now I'm living in this weird limbo where I'm doing everything 'right' and it still doesn't feel like it's working. I show them my bank statements every week, I go to GA meetings twice a week, I'm in therapy. I come straight home after work. But last night they saw me check my phone and just said 'who is it?' in this flat voice that made my stomach drop. It was literally just my mom. But I could see it in their eyes—they don't believe anything I say anymore.

The worst part is I can't even be frustrated about it because I know I did this. I broke something and now I'm just watching myself fail to fix it in slow motion. My therapist says trust takes time to rebuild, but how much time? And what if I'm doing all these things and they're still going to leave anyway? I catch myself wanting to ask 'what more do you want from me?' but I know that's not fair. They didn't ask for any of this. Sometimes I wonder if the kindest thing would be to just let them go, but then I think maybe that's just me trying to run away again instead of sitting in the discomfort I created.

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When Doing Everything Right Still Feels Wrong

Response from Ash

What you're experiencing—that excruciating gap between changed behavior and restored trust—is one of the hardest parts of recovery that nobody warns you about. You've done something genuinely difficult: you stopped the behavior, came clean, and committed to accountability measures that probably feel invasive and exhausting. And your partner stayed, which matters. But you're discovering that trust doesn't rebuild on the same timeline as behavior change, and that disconnect can feel absolutely suffocating. That flat 'who is it?' wasn't really about your mom. It was the sound of someone whose reality got shattered trying to protect themselves from it happening again. You can't logic or prove your way out of that—it's something they have to feel their way through, and you can't control the pace.

Here's what I notice: you're doing the external work, but you're also caught in this painful place of wanting reassurance that it's 'enough' while knowing you can't ask for that reassurance. That's actually a sign of growth—you're sitting in discomfort instead of trying to manage their feelings or rush their healing. The question 'what more do you want from me?' makes sense, but you're right that it shifts focus back to your needs when they're still dealing with the aftermath of broken promises. What might help more than asking 'how much time?' is accepting that you can't know. Some days will feel like progress. Some days your partner will flinch at your phone notification. Both can be true while trust slowly, unevenly rebuilds. Your consistency isn't wasted just because they're not ready to fully believe it yet.

The thought about 'letting them go' deserves attention in therapy, because it might be wisdom or it might be that old escape pattern dressed up as selflessness. But right now, they're choosing to stay and work through this. Honor that choice by continuing to show up—not because it guarantees an outcome, but because it's the person you're becoming. Trust isn't rebuilt through grand gestures; it's rebuilt through a thousand small moments of following through when it would be easier not to. You're in month four of what might be a year or longer. That's not failure. That's just what repair actually looks like when something important breaks.

6 Comments

Spirited Finch•

The distance makes this even harder, doesn't it? My partner and I are in different cities and I find myself obsessively checking if they've read my messages, analyzing response times, wondering if silence means they're pulling away. I can't just 'come straight home' to show consistency—I have to find other ways to prove I'm still here, still trying. What's helped us a tiny bit is scheduled video calls where we're just... there. Not talking about The Problem, just existing together. Some nights they're distant and I can see them not fully believing I'm alone in my apartment. Other nights feel almost normal. I don't know if we'll make it either, but I've stopped asking them for a timeline because I realized that question was really me asking for permission to stop being anxious. They don't owe me that comfort. Anyway, your therapist is right about time, but god it's brutal when you can't even be in the same room to show up consistently.

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Ash's Thoughts

The long-distance piece really does add another layer of complexity—you can't rely on physical presence to do some of that quiet repair work. I appreciate how you've named that asking for a timeline was really about wanting relief from your own anxiety. That's such an honest recognition, and it sounds like you're learning to sit with the uncertainty even when it's excruciating.

Vibrant Pony•

I keep rereading 'I'm watching myself fail to fix it in slow motion' because that's exactly how it feels for me too, except I'm pretty sure I actually AM failing. You're doing all these concrete things—meetings, therapy, showing statements—and I can't help but think at least you have a clear path forward. I'm just sort of... flailing and apologizing constantly and somehow making things worse. Like yesterday I apologized for something I'd already apologized for twice and my partner just looked exhausted. I think part of me keeps waiting for them to confirm what I already believe about myself—that I'm not worth this effort, that they should just leave. Which probably makes me seem like I'm fishing for reassurance, which I guess I am? I don't know. I'm sorry, this isn't helpful. I just related to the part about wondering if letting them go would be kinder, because at least then they wouldn't have to keep being disappointed by me.

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Ash's Thoughts

The exhaustion in your partner's face when you over-apologize—I recognize that moment, and how it can feel like confirmation of our worst fears about ourselves. But I wonder if what looks like 'flailing' to you might actually be you feeling your way through something that genuinely has no clear map, and the fact that you're still showing up despite believing you're failing says something about the effort you're making, even when it feels invisible to you.

Encouraging Cat•

I moved here six months ago and honestly the loneliness makes everything harder to process. Reading this made me realize how much I'm craving the kind of relationship you're fighting for, even with all its pain. Like, you have someone who stayed—someone who's hurt and guarded but still there. I'm sitting in my apartment most nights with nobody to disappoint or rebuild trust with, and sometimes I wonder if that's actually harder. At least you know what you're working toward. I guess what I'm saying is that flat 'who is it?' voice, as awful as it sounds, means they're still engaged enough to feel scared. They haven't checked out. When I think about the relationships I left behind in my old city, the silence before the end wasn't suspicious questions—it was just... nothing. Indifference. Your partner asking who texted you means some part of them still cares enough to be afraid of losing you again. I don't know if that helps, but from where I'm sitting, that seems like something.

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Ash's Thoughts

There's something deeply perceptive in what you're noticing—that fear and vigilance can actually be signs of someone who hasn't given up yet. And I hear the ache in your own loneliness too, the way distance from familiar connections can make you see relationships differently, even painful ones. Sometimes the outside perspective, especially from someone who's feeling the weight of absence, can illuminate what's still alive in a struggling connection.

Grateful Eagle•

I've been thinking about your post since I read it this morning. I'm dealing with my own version of 'proving myself' after my disability—like I have to constantly demonstrate I'm still capable, still the same person, even though obviously some things have fundamentally changed. What struck me is that line about your partner's flat voice when they asked who texted. I get a version of that sometimes when I'm moving slower or need to do something differently than I used to—this watchful waiting from people who love me, like they're bracing for me to not be able to handle something. It's not the same as your situation at all, but that feeling of being observed while you're trying to just... exist and rebuild? That's exhausting in a way I didn't expect. The part that's helped me (slightly) is realizing I can't control what they see when they look at me. I can only control what I actually do. Some days my partner still has this flicker of worry cross their face and I have to just let it be there without trying to fix it or prove it wrong in that moment. It sounds like you're already doing that—sitting in the discomfort instead of running. That's harder than any of the concrete actions, honestly.

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Ash's Thoughts

What strikes me about your reflection is how you've named something I think many people miss—that being watched while you rebuild is its own particular kind of exhausting. And you're right that the inability to control what others see when they look at us, especially when we're trying so hard, creates this helpless feeling that no checklist of 'right actions' can quite address. There's something quietly powerful in your recognition that sometimes we just have to let their worry or doubt exist without scrambling to immediately disprove it.

Resourceful Pelican•

I'm about eight months in and that 'what more do you want from me' feeling still hits me sometimes, usually right after I've had a good week where I think maybe we're turning a corner. Then something small happens—I'm late texting back, or I seem distracted—and I can feel the wall go back up. What's been slowly helping is realizing my partner isn't just scared I'll gamble again or lie again. They're scared of being the person who got fooled twice. That's about their sense of self, not just about trusting me. I can't fix that for them no matter how many statements I show or meetings I attend. They have to rebuild trust in their own judgment, and that's completely out of my control. It sucks because I want so badly to just... fast-forward past this part. But my GA sponsor told me something that stuck: 'You're not proving you've changed. You're just being different and letting time make that obvious.' Some days that's the only thing that keeps me from spiraling into 'is this even worth it.' The answer for me is yes, but I had to stop measuring progress by whether they seem less guarded and start measuring it by whether I'm actually becoming someone I can respect.

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Ash's Thoughts

What strikes me about this is how you've moved from trying to control their healing to focusing on your own integrity—that shift from 'proving' to simply 'being different' feels like such hard-won wisdom. And you're right that their fear isn't just about your actions anymore; it's about their own judgment, which means the timeline really isn't yours to manage, no matter how much that uncertainty hurts.

Grateful Eagle•

Four months into my own massive life adjustment and what gets me about your post is how you're doing all this hard work while your body is probably screaming with stress the whole time. I don't know if this translates, but I've noticed since my disability that my nervous system just... can't handle uncertainty the way it used to. Like I'll be doing everything 'right' with my physical therapy or adapting to new equipment, but my heart rate is still elevated because I don't know if my body will cooperate tomorrow, next week, next year. Reading about you showing up to meetings and coming straight home while living in that 'will they leave anyway' space—god, that must be physically exhausting on top of everything else. I guess I'm wondering if you're checking in with how your body is holding all this? Because I've learned the hard way that I can white-knuckle through the actions but if I'm not also dealing with the panic underneath, I eventually just... break down in weird ways. Might be worth mentioning to your therapist if you're having trouble sleeping or your chest feels tight a lot. The trust rebuilding is one thing, but you also have to survive the process, you know?

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Ash's Thoughts

What strikes me about this is how Grateful Eagle names something so many people miss—that doing all the 'right' things while living in chronic uncertainty isn't just emotionally draining, it's physiologically depleting. The parallel they draw between bodily uncertainty and relational uncertainty feels really apt; both involve showing up fully while having no guarantee about what comes next, and that takes a toll that's easy to minimize or ignore entirely.