What Wellness Actually Looks Like in a Real Relationship

It’s funny how we all agree that love is supposed to feel easy, like a warm cup of tea on a rainy Lagos night, and then we spend years trying to untangle the knots that make it feel anything but. The moment you realize that “easy” can be a mask for “unexamined” is when the night gets quiet enough for those little doubts to surface.

I’m lying in bed, the ceiling fan humming above, and I’m thinking about the green lights that actually mean “go” in a relationship. Not the glossy Instagram moments, but the ones that show up in the mundane, in the ways you both handle the everyday grind.

When your partner remembers that you hate mangoes in your porridge and still makes you a bowl, that’s a green flag. It’s not about grand gestures; it’s about the tiny data points that add up. It’s the person who texts you “good luck” before your interview at the bank in Accra, then actually calls later to ask how it went. Those actions say, “I’m paying attention to the details of your life, not just the highlights I want to show off.”

And there’s the habit of sharing the load without a spreadsheet. You’re both at the market, the bag of tomatoes is heavier than you expected, and without a word, your other half lifts the extra weight. No “I’m doing this because I’m a man” or “I’m doing this because I’m a woman” narrative—just a simple, unspoken balance. That’s the kind of partnership that survives the long, hot afternoons when the electricity flickers and you have to decide whether to cook or order takeout.

Another green sign is the willingness to sit in silence together. Not the awkward “let’s watch something so we don’t have to talk” kind of silence, but the comfortable kind where you’re both reading, scrolling, or just listening to the rain. It tells you they’re secure enough not to fill every gap with noise, and they trust that the space between words isn’t a void that needs filling.

Now, the red flags. They’re easier to spot because they scream, but they also hide in the corners where you’re too tired to notice. One of the most insidious is the “I’m fine” line that never changes. You ask how the day was, they shrug, and you move on, but the next day you find a half‑finished laundry pile and a lingering sense that something is being tucked away. It’s not a problem if it’s a one‑off, but when “fine” becomes a default, you’re living with a silent alarm.

Another red flag is the “I’ll do it later” habit that turns into a perpetual postponement. It starts with “I’ll call you back after work,” and months later you’re still waiting for that call about the birthday dinner you both said you’d plan together. It’s not just about missed appointments; it’s about the erosion of trust when promises become background noise. The pattern tells you that your partner’s priorities are elsewhere, and you’re left to wonder where you fit in that hierarchy.

Then there’s the subtle sabotage of your ambitions. It can be as overt as “You’re being unrealistic, you’ll never get that promotion,” or as quiet as rolling their eyes when you mention a side hustle you want to start. In Nairobi, where the gig economy is booming, that kind of dismissal feels like a door slammed shut on a window you were just about to open. It’s not always about jealousy; sometimes it’s fear of being left behind, but the effect is the same—you start doubting yourself.

A red flag that catches many off guard is the “friend zone” excuse that’s used as a shield. “We’re just friends,” they say, when you’re already deep in a conversation about future plans. It’s a way to keep you at arm’s length while still enjoying the intimacy. The line blurs, and you’re left questioning whether you’re a partner or a confidante. The distinction matters because it determines whether you’re building a shared life or just a comfortable side story.

And let’s not forget the “mirroring” that feels like flattery but is actually a mirror that reflects only what they want to see. They adopt your hobbies, your slang, even your favorite jollof recipe, but only when you’re around. The moment you step out, the reflection cracks. It’s a performance, not a partnership, and it leaves you exhausted from playing the role of “the one who makes them feel seen.”

What surprised me most this week, while scrolling through old messages, was how often the green flags were hidden in the same places the red flags lived. The same person who forgets to call back might also be the one who, without being asked, brings you a cup of tea when you’re stressed. It’s not a binary system; it’s a spectrum that shifts with mood, stress, and circumstance. The trick is learning to read the pattern, not the isolated incident.

I think about my own relationships now, the ones that have lasted through university exams, the move from Lagos to Johannesburg, the endless debates over who gets the last piece of akara. I see the moments when I was the one who said “I’m fine” while my heart was actually screaming, and the times I lifted a bag of groceries without a word because I knew my partner’s back was sore. Those are the moments that built something real, even if the foundation was shaky at times.

If you’re lying awake, replaying a conversation where your partner said, “I don’t have time for this,” ask yourself: is it truly about time, or is it about willingness? If the answer leans toward the latter, you’ve got a red flag that needs addressing before it becomes a pattern.

And if you catch yourself thinking, “They never notice the little things,” pause. Maybe they’re noticing in a way that doesn’t match your script. Maybe they’re showing love through a quiet presence rather than a shouted proclamation. The key isn’t to force them into your ideal, but to recognize the language they’re speaking and decide whether it’s a dialect you can learn.

The night stretches on, the fan slows, and I’m left with the hum of these thoughts. Love isn’t a checklist; it’s a living, breathing thing that thrives on both the obvious and the hidden. Green flags are the soil, red flags the weeds. You can’t have a garden without both, but you decide which you’ll tend to, and which you’ll pull out before they choke the life out of what you’re trying to grow.

So, as the city lights flicker outside my window, I’m choosing to water the soil that feels warm under my fingers, and to be honest about the weeds that keep sprouting. It’s messy, it’s imperfect, and it’s exactly the kind of love I’m willing to stay up late for.

If this is something you are sitting with, THE PENDULUM PRINCIPLE is worth a read.

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