By Farley Ledgerwood
Most men don’t wake up and announce, “My feelings faded.”
It’s quieter than that.
What slips first is how he shows up—tone, timing, touch, plans.
If you’re seeing a few of these on repeat, it doesn’t automatically mean he’s out. But it does mean something needs attention.
After six-plus decades of living, loving, and watching couples try to find their way back to each other, these are the patterns I look for—and the simple moves that can bring things into the open.
Let’s get to it!
1. Conversation turns into logistics
You still “talk,” but it’s mostly schedules, bills, carpools, and who’s picking up what. The easy little detours—how a song hit him, what that awkward moment at work stirred up—go missing. Replies get shorter. Jokes don’t get a second beat.
What to try: trade detective work for one direct question a day. “What was the best five minutes of your day?” Then actually wait for the answer. If the answers stay consistently shallow, name the pattern: “We’re great at planning, light on connection. I miss your inner world.”
2. Touch becomes maintenance, not message
Hugs and kisses still happen, but they’re punctuation marks, not conversation. Spontaneous touch dries up. In bed, intimacy gets “rescheduled,” or it runs like a script.
What to try: invite, don’t pursue. “I’d love a slow hour together Friday—any interest?” And add nonsexual touch in daylight: hand on the back while passing, a longer squeeze at hello. If those get dodged, you have data you can speak to kindly and clearly.
3. Irritation grows teeth over small things
The dishwasher pattern becomes a federal case. The way you tell a story gets a sigh. When love thins, quirks turn into crimes. He’s not trying to be cruel; he’s leaking frustration because the real topic (disconnection) is scarier than the spoon in the wrong drawer.
What to try: ignore the spoon and ask the meta-question. “We’re prickly about little things—feels like something bigger is sitting between us. What do you think it is?”
4. He becomes the perfect roommate
Everything runs on time. Trash out. Oil changed. Birthdays remembered. But there’s no curiosity about your inner life, no playfulness, no “tell me more.”
Overfunctioning is a tidy way to avoid feeling.
What to try: redistribute logistics and reintroduce play. “I’ll own meals this week; you pick one fun thing for us to do.” If the fun request gets a consistent “pass,” that’s your opening to talk about why.
In my office years, I hit a season where I was an excellent roommate and a poor partner. Bills? Paid early. Lawn? Gorgeous. I told myself I was being thoughtful.
Truthfully, I was hiding in competence. One night, after another evening of parallel chores, I heard, “I don’t need a foreman, I need you.” We sat at the table with the dishwasher still humming and said out loud what we both knew: the work was a shield.
We made a tiny trade—two nights a week with no “projects,” just a walk after dinner and a 15-minute check-in. I didn’t fall back in love because I edged the lawn; I fell back because I let the list go and let her in.
5. He lives on his screens (or his “harmless” escapes)
More scrolling, more news, more games, more gym, more fishing—anything that keeps him “occupied.” The hours add up. He’s not cheating; he’s retreating. Screens and solo routines numb just enough to avoid the harder conversation.
What to try: set a shared boundary with a shared replacement. “Phones down 9–9:30 tonight? Tea and two questions.” Habits fight routines, not lectures.
6. The future gets foggy
When a man is in, calendars have color—trips, shows, dinners with friends. When he’s unsure, “someday” replaces dates. Plans stay theoretical, or he prefers “playing it by ear” indefinitely.
What to try: put one near-term stake in the ground. “Two nights away in November—book now or skip?” A loving “no” comes with an alternate. A faded “no” comes with mist.
7. He stops making (or responding to) bids for connection
A “bid” is Gottman’s term for those little reach-outs—“Look at this,” “Taste this,” “Walk with me?” When men check out, they miss those bids or swat them away. He doesn’t notice the bird you point out. He grunts at the meme.
He says “later” to the walk and doesn’t circle back.
What to try: say the thing plainly. “When I point something out and it doesn’t land, I feel alone next to you. Can we both try catching more of each other’s bids this week?”
8. He rewrites the story to justify distance
Listen for narrative drift. “We’ve always been bad at communicating.” “You know I’m not affectionate.”
Past warmth gets edited out so the present coolness feels logical. It’s self-protection: if the story was never great, nobody has to grieve what’s fading.
What to try: bring receipts, gently. “Here’s a photo of last spring’s picnic—you couldn’t stop talking about that dumb bird. I know we have that in us. I want to protect it.” You’re not arguing; you’re reminding his nervous system what’s true.
A couple I knew started telling a “We’re just not that couple” story. No big trips, no big romance, they said.
It sounded tidy until we pulled their old calendar and found a dozen little adventures—farmers’ markets, sunrise drives, movies on the lawn. Their love didn’t die; their memory got lazy.
Once they named the drift, they reinstated one old ritual (Saturday morning coffee at the same stool) and added one new (phones in a drawer for the first 20 minutes after work). The story changed because the days changed.
9. Conflict disappears—but so does repair
No fights can feel like peace. Sometimes it’s avoidance. He opts out with “Whatever,” “I’m tired,” or a strategic silence.
The problem isn’t that you argued; it’s that you never end up at “What do we do next time?”
What to try: micro-repair. “Ten minutes, two questions: what did I do that helped today, and what did I miss?” When you make repair a ritual, men (who were often trained to avoid “drama”) get a safe lane back to closeness.
10. Generosity comes with edges—or not at all
Little kindnesses taper off. Favors get transactional. He helps but the tone is tight, or there’s an invisible invoice afterward (“After everything I did…”).
When love is bright, giving feels like play. When it’s dim, giving feels like tax.
What to try: set terms clearly before a favor—on both sides. “Could you help me 10–12 on Saturday? I’ll handle lunch. No worries if not.” Then notice patterns across weeks, not one weird Saturday.
How to bring this up without a blow-up
Keep it specific and short
“When X happens, I feel Y, could we try Z?” Example: “When our nights are all chores, I feel distant. Could we do phones in a drawer 8–8:30 and walk once this week?”
Pick one change, put it on a calendar
“Tuesday, no TV, just tea and talk for 20 minutes.” Hope needs dates. Without them you’ll drift and call it trying.
Ask for his version and listen like it matters
“What am I not giving you that you need?” If you get defensiveness, say, “I’m not judging. I’m trying to understand so we can build something that works for both of us.”
Trade scorekeeping for clarity
Instead of “I always do everything,” try “Can you own dinners on Wednesdays? I’ll own Saturdays.” Invisible labor gets visible; resentment has fewer places to hide.
Invite help early
Couples counseling isn’t the emergency room; it’s physical therapy for a strained muscle. If he won’t go, go yourself. One steady person can shift the dance.
A note to men who see themselves here
If you recognized your own habits, take heart. Many of us were taught to love by doing (provide, fix, protect) and to fear the softer work (name, feel, ask).
You don’t need a personality transplant. You need new reps. One honest sentence. One small ritual. One calendar date that survives convenience.
As I’ve mentioned before, relationships don’t need grand gestures nearly as much as they need reliable ones.
What it isn’t
• A verdict after one bad week. Illness, grief, deadlines—life can imitate disconnection. Look for patterns.
• A gender indictment. Women show these too. We’re just looking through a male-typical lens here.
• A command to cling. If you’ve named the pattern, offered repair, and he’s clear he’s out, believe him. Dignity is a form of love—especially for yourself.
The bottom line
Love rarely leaves with fireworks. It leaves with calendar blanks, soft “maybes,” and the long shadow of “later.”
Catch it early. Ask one real question tonight. Put one small ritual in the week ahead.
If he meets you there, great—now you have a path. If he doesn’t, at least you’ll be standing in the light when you make your next choice.
Which tiny shift will you try first—the screen-free 20 minutes, the walk after dinner, or the one sentence that starts with “When…”?
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