When They Pull Away After Getting Close: Inside the Dismissive Avoidant Brain

So yeah, everything was going well.

You were doing all the things. Playlists. Weekend plans. Long morning texts. He invited you to the Knicks game. Then made brunch plans the next day. The day after a night out, no less. That kind of follow-through felt like a green flag. Like maybe this one’s different.

It felt easy. Consistent. Maybe even real. And then it didn’t. The replies slowed. The tone shifted. That midday text you usually get is suddenly missing. And you’re left in the weird gray space of “What happened?”

You start replaying the last conversation. Overthinking the last emoji. Wondering if you said too much or leaned in too far. But deep down, something in you knows this isn’t the first time this has happened.

And here’s what no one tells you.

When someone with a dismissive avoidant attachment style pulls away, it’s not random. It’s not about playing games or making you guess. It’s something deeper. Older. Wired in their nervous system before they ever met you.

This is what it feels like inside the dismissive avoidant brain.

Why Dismissive Avoidants Pull Away After Getting Close

I didn’t mean to disappear. That’s not how this started. When I first connected with you, I felt something I don’t always feel. Curiosity. Comfort. Safety. Maybe even excitement. I liked how easy it felt. No pressure. Just presence.

But then something changed. It always does. Maybe it was a text that felt too intimate. Maybe you asked where this is going. Maybe I started to feel like you needed something from me that I didn’t know how to give.

I don’t always recognize the trigger right away. But I feel it. In my chest. In my stomach. In the way I suddenly want to cancel plans or go quiet or stay busy. I start to feel closed in. Like connection is something I have to manage instead of enjoy.

And I hate that feeling.

Because the more I like you, the more I feel at risk. The closer you get, the more I feel like I’m losing something, my independence, my clarity, my space to breathe.

So what do I do? I retreat. I pull back. I stop replying right away. I act like I’m fine, like nothing’s wrong. But inside, I’m tense. Guarded. On high alert. It’s not because you did anything wrong. It’s not because I don’t care. It’s because closeness, for me, doesn’t feel like safety. It feels like exposure.

What You See as Warmth, I Sometimes Feel as Pressure

You ask how I’m doing, and my chest tightens. You want to talk about where this is going, and I start scanning for exits. You show up consistently, and part of me wonders when that consistency is going to turn into expectation.

I grew up learning to rely on myself. I don’t like needing people. I don’t like being vulnerable. I don’t know how to do emotional intimacy in a way that doesn’t feel like surrender. I want connection. I just don’t always trust it. Because in my experience, needing someone means giving up control. And giving up control has never felt safe.

If You’re Anxiously Attached

You feel the shift in me like a siren. Where I pull away, you lean in. Where I go silent, you ask for reassurance. Where I shut down, you overthink and overextend. Not because you’re clingy. Not because you’re dramatic, but because your nervous system is wired to detect emotional disconnection as danger. Just like mine is wired to detect emotional closeness as threat.

It’s a loop that plays out in countless relationships. The dismissive avoidant pull away. The anxious partner leans in. You want more, I need space. You pursue, I withdraw. You feel abandoned. I feel smothered. Neither of us is wrong. We’re just activated. Neither of us is wrong. We’re just activated.

What This Is Really About

This isn’t about texting habits or disappearing acts or timing. This is about nervous systems that speak two different languages. The anxious system says closeness keeps me safe. The avoidant system says closeness puts me at risk. Until either side learns how to regulate that response, we keep living out the same pattern with different people.

If You’re Avoidant and Reading This

You’re not broken. You’re not incapable of love. You’ve just learned to protect yourself by pulling away before you can be hurt. But protection can start to feel like isolation. And the longer you stay in that loop, the harder it becomes to let anyone in. Even the people who actually feel safe.

Awareness is the first step. Regulation is the next. You don’t have to go all-in overnight. But you can start by staying present when you want to bolt. You can learn how to tolerate connection without abandoning yourself. And you can learn how to be loved without needing to disappear.