When Compromise Starts to Cost You More Than It Gives Back
TikTok video from 2023-05-10
Someone asked me recently,
“Lisa, why are any of the things you mentioned so difficult to compromise on?”
And oof—what a question.
At first glance, some of my choices probably do sound small or even trivial. Breakfast at Denny’s. A sundae at McDonald’s. Sharing a bed instead of sleeping alone. But love isn’t about the size of the compromise. It’s about the accumulation of them—and what they start to cost you when you're not keeping track.
This question brought me straight back to my relationship with Sapio.
And to be clear, this isn’t just about him. It’s about what happens to all of us when we stay too long in a pattern of quiet self-betrayal. Because that’s what compromising can become when we stop being honest with ourselves about what we’re actually giving up.
With Sapio, we had plenty of good moments.
We laughed. We connected. We made sweet memories.
We had our “thing”—getting hot fudge sundaes together, even if I didn’t love the setting or the sugar crash that came after. We met in the middle where we could. I made space. He brought warmth. We tried.
My compromise was sharing meals in the middle of the day—when I’m usually a dinner-only kind of person.
My compromise was eating in restaurants I wouldn’t normally set foot in—McDonald’s, Denny’s, places that don’t light me up, but lit him up.
My compromise was letting someone else share my bed regularly—even though I sleep best alone.
And you know what?
None of that felt like a problem… until it did.
Because here’s what happens in relationships—especially long-term ones, especially when you really want it to work:
We start letting things slide.
We say, “It’s okay, he brings me flowers.”
Or “It’s fine, he makes me laugh.”
Or “I don’t really love golf, but he’s so much fun, I’ll go to the driving range anyway.”
We chip away at ourselves in tiny, quiet ways.
We compromise. Then compromise again.
We trade a bit of discomfort for the reward of companionship, connection, intimacy.
And sometimes, that’s a fair exchange.
But other times?
The pile of compromises starts to grow.
And if we’re not paying attention, it begins to outweigh the joy.
I’ve done it in my marriage too.
For decades, I compromised on romance. I compromised on emotional intimacy.
I had to look outside of my marriage just to find someone who could help me process my feelings—because that’s not something my husband could hold for me.
And I tolerated it, because that’s what we do, right?
Until we opened our marriage.
Until we gave ourselves permission to stop pretending that one person had to be everything.
Until we stopped shaming ourselves for wanting what we needed.
And suddenly, compromise started to look different.
It became a conscious choice.
One we could name. One we could honor. One we could sometimes opt out of—by getting those unmet needs met somewhere else, in a healthy, open, consensual way.
My husband doesn’t like public displays of affection.
He never has.
It’s a small thing, maybe, but I love touch. I crave tenderness. I want to hold hands while walking down the street. I want forehead kisses and thigh squeezes under the table.
So I got that from Sapio.
That was the trade.
To receive that kind of affection, I had to go into public spaces he loved. I had to sit across from him in chain restaurants that don’t align with my values. I had to eat at odd hours and interrupt my flow.
And in the beginning, it felt worth it.
But slowly—so slowly—I realized the sum of those compromises was starting to feel heavier than the sweetness of the affection I was receiving.
The connection was still there, but the joy wasn’t.
That’s when you know it’s time to pause.
To re-evaluate.
To ask yourself not “Is this tolerable?”
But “Is this aligned?”
That’s the thing about compromise. It’s not inherently bad. It’s not something to avoid.
But if you’re not actively checking in with yourself, it becomes erosion.
A slow wearing away of your truth.
And I don’t want to erode anymore.
I want to expand.
So now, when I compromise, I do it with full awareness.
And if something starts to cost me too much, I don’t shame myself for walking away.
That’s what I learned with Sapio.
That’s what I’m still learning, every day, in my marriage.
That’s what I hope more of us can say out loud—without guilt, without drama, without needing to be “right.”
You can love someone and still outgrow the compromises you once made for them.
That doesn’t make you selfish.
It makes you awake.
