Issa Rae

Back in my time as a young adult, I was dating someone who loved going out clubbing. I always had a problem with that. It made me uncomfortable, not because I didn’t trust her, necessarily, but because I couldn’t handle the thought of what might happen when she was out (ok I did not trust). I imagined other guys hitting on her, asking her out, maybe even charming her. That image sat heavy in my mind. I couldn't shake it.

So I did what many insecure young men might do, I asked her to stop going out.

My reasoning felt solid at the time: if you're in a serious relationship, you shouldn't be spending your weekends in places that could potentially put that relationship at risk. To me, clubbing wasn’t just dancing and drinks, it was a space where things could happen, where temptation lived. But to her, it was just fun with friends. It wasn’t about meeting other men or disrespecting the relationship.

Naturally, this caused conflict. She pushed back. To her, there was nothing wrong with going out to enjoy herself, and she felt I was being controlling or insecure. And honestly, I was. That tension eventually wore us down. We broke up.

Looking back, I wonder: What if I had taken the time to really explore why I felt that way? What if I’d dug deeper into the discomfort, questioned where it came from? Was it fear? Insecurity? A lack of trust? Was I projecting my own fears onto her actions?

And here's the harder question: Was I right to ask her to stop? Or was I just reacting from a place of fear? We often tell ourselves that someone who truly values a relationship won’t do anything to endanger it. But we rarely consider how they see their actions. What we call “selfish” might simply be their way of maintaining their identity, their space, their joy.

If I had put myself in her shoes, maybe I would’ve seen that clubbing wasn’t an act of rebellion or disrespect, it was her way of staying connected to a part of herself that existed before we met. Something that made her feel alive. And when people feel they're losing parts of themselves in a relationship, they push back.

But instead of understanding, we often shame them. We label their behaviour as inconsiderate, never pausing to think: What are they really trying to hold onto?

As I reflect now, I realize the issue wasn’t just about her going out, it was about me feeling inadequate. Deep down, I feared that I lacked something she might find in someone else. More money. Better looks. A better car. More charm. A better lover. And sure, people like that do exist in the world. But assuming that every time she stepped into a club she’d find someone “better” was less about her and more about what I hadn’t come to terms with in myself.

That’s the hard truth about insecurity: it’s ours to manage, not our partner’s to fix. When someone’s actions trigger discomfort in us, our first step shouldn’t be to control them, it should be to examine ourselves.

If the relationship truly matters to you, you owe it to both of you to articulate those insecurities, not as accusations, but as truths. And if you can’t be honest with your partner without fearing judgment or rejection, that’s a red flag too. A healthy relationship should allow for vulnerability, not punish it.

So here's what I've learned: insecurity doesn’t go away on its own. You have to face it, dissect it, and if you’re lucky, let it die, one honest conversation at a time.