Living between anxious and avoidant attachment

In therapeutic work, certain patterns repeat themselves — not in a formulaic way, but in a deeply human one. One of the more complex and painful dynamics I witness, again and again, is the push-pull of clients caught in what’s often referred to as anxious-avoidant attachment.

These individuals move through the world with one hand reaching out for closeness, and the other bracing to protect themselves from the very intimacy they crave. It’s not a contradiction — it’s a survival strategy.

One client I worked with, who I’ll refer to as Sarah, described her relationships as emotional minefields. “I want to be close to people,” she told me in one of our early sessions, “but when they get too close, I freeze. And when they pull away, I panic. I can’t win.” There was a quiet desperation in her voice — an exhaustion born not just from one relationship, but from years of feeling unsafe in connection.

Sarah didn’t present with obvious trauma. She was functional, intelligent, and perceptive. But emotionally, she was always scanning — reading between lines, tracking tone, body language and delay in response. Her nervous system was constantly on high alert, searching for signs that she was either about to be abandoned… or engulfed.

This is the lived experience of someone whose attachment needs were never quite consistently met. In early life, they may have had caregivers who were emotionally available in unpredictable ways — attuned and warm one moment, distant, overwhelmed, or emotionally absent the next. For a child, this inconsistency is confusing and often frightening. The child learns that love and safety are not guaranteed. They adapt by becoming hyper-attuned to others' emotional states (anxious attachment) and, at the same time, developing internal defences that keep others at a distance to avoid overwhelm (avoidant attachment).

By adulthood, this can manifest in relationships that feel intense, unstable, and confusing. Clients like Sarah often feel ashamed of their own reactions. They might describe themselves as “needy,” “too sensitive,” or “emotionally unavailable” — not realising these are protective patterns, not personal defects.

In therapy, one of the first and most important steps is validation. Helping clients understand that these behaviours are not random — they’re rooted in early attachment systems that were formed to keep them emotionally safe. I often tell clients, “You’re not broken. You’re patterned. And patterns can shift.” That insight alone can begin to loosen the grip of shame and offer a glimpse of hope.

With Sarah, we spent many sessions simply exploring her internal responses. What did her body feel when someone moved closer emotionally? What did the urge to pull away feel like — tightness in the chest, a spike in irritability, numbness? And what happened when she sensed distance from someone she cared about? What thoughts raced through her mind? What did she fear most?

What emerged was a clearer picture of her inner landscape: the child who wanted to be held, seen, and reassured — and the adolescent who learned that needing others could lead to disappointment or loss of self. These parts were not enemies. They were allies trying to protect her in different ways. By acknowledging both — the one who reaches and the one who retreats — Sarah began to soften around her experience. Instead of fighting against herself, she began to listen.

Therapeutic work with anxious-avoidant clients isn’t about “fixing” them or forcing them into secure attachment. It’s about building relational safety. The counselling relationship itself becomes a kind of corrective experience — one where the client is not judged, abandoned, or overwhelmed. One where they can show up fully, with all their contradictions, and still be held in regard.

Over time, Sarah began to notice her patterns more clearly in the moment, rather than only in hindsight. She’d catch herself pulling away emotionally and ask, “Am I protecting myself from something real, or from a fear that’s no longer true?” She learned to tolerate the discomfort of vulnerability, to stay just a bit longer in conversations that felt raw. And she learned to soothe the panic when connection felt fragile, without needing to chase or collapse.

Progress didn’t look like perfection. There were still moments of reactivity, still times when fear won. But there was also growth — measured not in dramatic changes, but in micro-shifts: one more second of openness, one softer response, one text not sent in panic. That’s the reality of attachment healing. It’s slow. It’s humbling. And it’s deeply courageous.

As counsellors, it’s vital that we remain attuned to the emotional push-pull these clients live with daily. We can’t rush their process, nor pathologise their defences. Our job is to hold space with consistency, to be the steady presence they didn’t always have growing up. To model that connection can be both safe and sovereign — that closeness doesn’t have to mean losing oneself.

Sarah’s story is not unique, though her pain was. She represents so many clients who walk into our rooms carrying the invisible weight of early relational wounds. What they need most isn’t advice or even insight — it’s presence. To be seen, not analysed. To be met, not managed.

There is incredible strength in the ones who stay — who keep trying, even when every cell in their body wants to run. Healing is not the absence of fear. It’s the growing belief that they can feel the fear and still choose connection.

*Name and details changed to preserve confidentiality.