The Parts Behind the Pattern: Why You Can’t Just “Fix” an Attachment Style

What IFS taught me when “avoidant” didn’t tell the whole truth

When I first met Courtney, it would have been easy to call me “avoidant.” I fit the description perfectly: emotionally hesitant, slow to commit, fond of gray areas. I said things like “let’s not define this too soon,” even when everything in my body felt deeply connected to her. I’d pull close, then pull away. I'd say she was important to me, and then clam up the next day.

But here's the part you wouldn’t have seen unless you were inside my head: I wasn’t playing games. I wasn’t disinterested. I was overwhelmed.

At the time, I was still cohabitating with my ex. We were separated and navigating a thoughtful, peaceful divorce. We were committed to keeping our family life stable, and that meant living under the same roof while slowly detangling our shared responsibilities and daily rhythms. The relationship was over, but the reality was still complicated. While I wanted to move forward, a part of me was scared of rushing something that needed more time.

When Courtney and I started seeing each other, I felt like I was straddling two worlds—one foot in the past, one in the unknown. And since I was swimming in that liminal space, of course, I started getting weird. I hedged. I couldn’t say with clarity: you are my person—even though another part of me felt it deeply. I’d say I needed more time. We should just “stay curious.” We should take it slow. On the surface, I was classic avoidant. But inside, it was so much messier than that.

The problem with the label

Attachment styles—anxious, avoidant, disorganized, secure—can be useful shorthand. They give us language for patterns we’ve lived over and over again. They help us spot familiar dynamics and explain why we keep ending up in the same relational loop.

But here’s the risk: we mistake the pattern for the person.

I started to notice that calling myself “avoidant” didn’t help me feel more connected. It helped me feel boxed in. Worse, it gave the parts of me that were scared an excuse to stay hidden. “I’m just wired this way,” they’d whisper. “Don’t get too close.” And if meeting my partner’s needs felt too complicated, that part would shrug and say, “See? You’re better off alone.”

That’s when I found my 15 years of training in Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapy to be suddenly useful.

IFS gave me a deeper map

IFS doesn’t pathologize. It doesn’t reduce you to a label or type. Instead, it sees you as a whole system of parts—each one trying to protect you, each one with its own story. (These parts of you interact like a family, with some more dominant than others, hence the name Internal Family Systems.)

There was a part of me that wanted to be close to Courtney. That part felt playful, alive, hopeful. But there was another part—the one I now call the transition manager. That part carried the burden of needing everything to be clean, clear, and safe before I could say yes to something new. It was deeply uncomfortable with ambiguity, yet even more afraid of making a mess.

And then there was a deeper part, still further inside—a vulnerable exile that carried grief from my marriage ending, shame about letting my kids down, and fear of being misunderstood. That part didn’t need to be “fixed.” It needed presence. Attention. Healing.

When I started listening to these parts—not overriding them, not arguing with them, just being with them—something softened. I stopped trying to choose between being “in” or “out” of the relationship and started getting curious about who inside me was reacting in each moment.

That curiosity changed everything. I can now say “I love you” to Courtney without my stomach doing summersaults.

Attachment theory describes. IFS transforms.

Attachment theory is observational—it describes how we tend to behave in relationships based on past experiences. IFS is experiential—it helps us change how we relate, from the inside out.

· Instead of saying “I’m anxious” or “I’m avoidant,” I started saying things like:
“A part of me is afraid to trust this.”

· “A part of me wants to say yes, and a part of me is trying to slow things down.”

· “Can I stay connected to my Self while a part of me is scared?”

This shift—from global identity to part-awareness—made space for real healing. I didn’t have to push myself to “act secure.” I just had to show up for the parts of me that didn’t feel secure yet.

You don’t have to fix your style. You just have to listen.

So many of us find relief in naming our attachment style—and then get stuck trying to behave our way out of it. We memorize scripts, set boundaries, read the books. But if we’re doing all of that while ignoring the younger, hurting, or scared parts of us driving the pattern… nothing really shifts.

You can’t fix your attachment style like it’s a broken appliance. But you can listen to the parts of you trying to protect something. And when you do that—gently, patiently, without forcing an outcome—your system starts to trust again. Not because you “earned” secure attachment, but because your protective parts don’t have to work so hard anymore.

That’s what happened for me. And it's what I see happen for my clients, too.

Have you ever tried to “fix” your attachment style? What parts of you might be behind the patterns you’ve labeled anxious, avoidant, or disorganized?

Comment below or send me a message—I read everything and will shape future posts based on your reflections.