10 Surprising Things That Block Your Emotional Availability (and 7 Things That Set You Free)

The paradox of emotional unavailability is that you can close yourself off so completely that you lose the awareness that you’re shut down in the first place. I went through a profound recovery around this particular wound from earlier trauma. At first I assumed any shift in how safe or emotionally present I felt would be triggered by my surroundings or other people — and you might think the same. It feels obvious to blame others when you’re defensive or keep people at arm’s length. That attribution is understandable, especially if those closest to you once neglected or harmed you. But once you remain emotionally distant in the present, the real work of change has to begin within you. It’s something you largely have to live through to grasp — like trying to describe the color green to someone who’s never seen it. I couldn’t sense the sweetness of being emotionally available until it actually started to awaken in my heart and whole self. When I finally uncovered what had been obstructing me, the discoveries surprised me. Below I’ll share the unexpected barriers I found and the surprising practices that helped me open up.
First, let me be clear about what I mean by emotional availability: it’s the ability and willingness to engage in deep, meaningful emotional contact with others. It means being present, open, and responsive to your own feelings and to other people’s signals — those little impressions that tell you, “I like this,” or, “Something about this feels off.” For those of us carrying unhealed trauma, that sensitivity can be almost entirely dulled. But when it returns, a truer awareness of yourself, of others, and of your environment emerges. Trust becomes possible and distrust gains real meaning. Being able to read the emotional contour of a room turns self-expression into a tool for connection. Your emotions start to provide reliable information, helping you distinguish between genuine danger that demands action and a memory-driven reaction that is merely a feeling. That discernment is the heart of emotional availability: you can feel what’s present in your perception and respond accordingly.
Here are some of the surprising things that blocked me. One common piece of advice is: if you feel bad, talk it out. Therapy, friends — everyone says you should share your upset. But for many people with childhood trauma, verbalizing distress can actually amplify dysregulation. Talking too much about what’s painful sent my nervous system into disarray rather than calming it. The advice assumes that articulating sorrow will feel soothing and that the listener wants to absorb it — neither is always true. Not every negative emotion needs to be aired publicly for others to fix, judge, or advise.
Another myth that tripped me up was the injunction to “always trust your gut.” For people with active trauma, the gut isn’t a steady compass yet. When fear and hypervigilance dominate, anxious intrusions can mimic legitimate alarms: the same mind that invents a waking nightmare (“Everyone’s against me”) can recycle that feeling so convincingly you can’t tell it from a real threat. So “trust your gut” without any further guidance is like being told to rely on a lens that’s out of focus. What you need instead are firm principles and practical tools — a daily practice to help clear the fog of fear and resentment so your inner sense can be honest and helpful. I learned to rely on my instincts only after that clutter lessened and a quieter, trustworthy inner voice remained.
Alcohol was another major obstacle. It’s the cultural go-to for softening social discomfort — “have a drink and you’ll loosen up” — but alcohol dulls awareness. It can produce the appearance of warmth and connection, yet what it often creates is disinhibition, not intimacy. That doesn’t mean never drinking, but if attachment wounds repeatedly sabotage you while dating or trying to build closeness, alcohol may not belong in those early moments of connecting.
Spending emotional energy on people who weren’t right for me also drained my capacity to be present. Whether it was pursuing someone who didn’t return interest, staying friends with someone who didn’t respect me, or being in relationships where my availability was never reciprocated, it felt like feeding a slot machine that never paid out. Your capacity to love and be present is a resource; if you fritter it away on dead-end connections, you won’t have it available when someone worthy of your attention arrives. You can use time alone to build availability so that when a suitable person appears, you’re ready to meet them fully instead of being depleted by past rejections.
Expecting partners, friends, or bosses to love and support me the way parents should was another serious barrier. That confusion — treating adult relationships like parental bonds — wrecked a lot of potential closeness. A partner is not a parent, and a boss is not a mother or father; conflating roles often leads to disappointment and to turning relationships into unhealthy parent–child dynamics. The same goes for assuming a circle of coworkers or friends will behave like an unshakeable family: work groups and social circles rarely have that kind of permanence. Clear boundaries — knowing what you will and won’t tolerate and being willing to leave when necessary — keep you grounded in reality and actually make closeness possible without collapsing into demands for unconditional caretaking.
Not speaking up damaged my ability to stay emotionally present. I became so practiced at stuffing my reactions that I’d freeze in moments where a voice could have preserved my heart. I remember a small but painful example during lockdown: my son’s high school graduation was a scaled‑down, spaced‑out affair on a football field, and the plan afterward was a quiet celebration with a cake from the nicest local bakery. When we went in, a notice limited the shop to five customers, and for whatever reason the timing made the employee erupt in rage as my son stepped inside. She screamed at him to leave, accused him of trying to “kill her,” and hurled insults at this newly turned‑18 graduate on the day of his milestone. My instinct was to melt away; he insisted we stay. He calmly replied, “I’m sure you’re right,” and defused the scene. I regret not having spoken up on his behalf sooner. Even though I didn’t want to create a larger spectacle, holding my tongue left me brooding and unable to enjoy what should have been a celebratory moment. Sometimes taking the risk to defend yourself or a loved one keeps your heart alive.
Another habit that shut me down was persistent negative talk — constant venting about traffic, the world collapsing, or general complaint. When we dwell on grievances without care for purpose or resolution, resentment can catch and snowball. A thread of bitterness, if given airtime, can ignite into a full‑blown storm that pulls you out of presence. The same was true when I spent time with people I didn’t respect or care for: seeking companionship at any price had me surrounded by acquaintances who shuttered my openness. Eventually I allowed myself to be alone for stretches and chose company more selectively, which helped me return to genuine listening and sharing.
Resentment itself was a huge barricade. When anger is the dominant emotional currency, it pushes others away and prevents real empathy for people right in front of you. That chronic gripe had to be released for me to reconnect with those who mattered. Closely tied to resentment was an inability to be vulnerable; constant suspicion convinced me people were against me, so I stayed guarded, tense, and internally critical. You can’t build intimacy while keeping that nervous, defensive seam intact — others sense it regardless of your outward smile, and it makes sincere connection nearly impossible.
Now, for what actually helped. The first and most transformative change was letting resentment go. I’d clung to anger out of fear that without it people would take advantage of me. I’d confused anger with boundary setting. Real boundaries are not about explosive retaliation; they’re calm declarations of what you will accept and what will prompt you to leave. Knowing you can walk away gives you the freedom to enter situations in the first place, and boundaries paradoxically allow you to be closer to others because you aren’t so desperate or reactive.
Surprisingly, regular physical exercise made a big difference. Moving my body daily grounded me in the present, reduced dissociation, and kept me attentive to bodily cues — the very sensations that help you notice what you’re feeling while someone tells you a story or reveals themselves. Exercise helped me stay out of my head and become more perceptive of subtle emotional information.
Curating media intake also mattered. Graphic TV — explicit sex, violence, or relentlessly enraging political outrage — numbed me. Even when bingeing intense shows seemed like acceptable entertainment, I’d notice the next day a little dullness in my sensitivity. Much modern media is designed to provoke outrage — “outrage porn” — because it hooks attention with bursts of energy that feel better than drifting into sadness. But leaning on constant anger as stimulation trains you to be numb to real suffering and erodes your capacity for compassionate presence. Stepping away from content that exists mainly to inflame helped restore availability.
Time alone, especially travel and hikes by myself, taught me to pay attention in different ways. Solo trips invite small, meaningful encounters with strangers and help you develop confidence and social ease without the constant chatter of company. That kind of solo practice expanded my emotional reach.
Counterintuitively, postponing dating and using the time to fix practical life problems and clarify what kind of partner belonged in my life proved wise. When I finally met my husband, I was much more emotionally present: life felt settled, I’d done important work, and I knew I wanted stability and clarity. That made me sensitive to the difference between someone whose life was chaotic and someone whose life was strong, and I could choose accordingly.
Another shift was letting go of the need to extract support, validation, or energy from others. I used to approach relationships with a sense of lack, trying to wring empathy out of people. When I stopped playing that role, I began socializing without an agenda, listening genuinely, and noticing both the gifts and the warning signs in others. Paying attention without needing anything in return sharpened my ability to judge whether someone belonged in my inner circle.
Perhaps the most powerful change was shifting from endlessly talking about trauma to processing it privately through writing. In February 1994 I learned a writing technique that helped me rapidly move out of depression, anxiety, and PTSD‑driven chaos. The practice involved putting anxious and angry thoughts onto paper and then intentionally releasing them — almost like a prayer — followed by a calming meditation. The combination re‑regulated my nervous system and transformed my life. That work eventually became the opening chapter of a book about how re‑regulation unfolded for me, and it launched the methods I now share with others. That technique, paired with meditation, cleared enough of the old noise that I could be more myself. I still teach those methods free of charge, and a sign‑up link is provided below. People who take the course receive invitations to regular online calls; there are public Zoom gatherings every other week, so there’s a live space to practice and ask questions. It all begins when you enroll in the free course, and I hope to connect with you there very soon.