Learning My Attachment Style: From Fearful Avoidant to Phoenix Rising

A radiant phoenix soars against the backdrop of a warm, glowing sky, embodying the essence of transformation and rebirth as it rises from the ashes.

For most of my life, I lived by a set of rules I didn’t know I’d written. I moved through the world with an undercurrent of anxiety I could never quite name, and a persistent belief that if I didn’t keep everyone at arm’s length—or, on the flip side, try desperately to pull them close—I’d get hurt. Relationships felt like minefields. Vulnerability? Terrifying. Intimacy? Yearned for, but so often avoided.

It wasn’t until years into adulthood that I stumbled upon the concept of attachment styles. I remember reading descriptions of the “fearful avoidant” style and feeling like someone had pulled the curtains wide open on my private struggles. There it was, in black and white: the push-pull, the hyper-vigilance, the craving for connection mixed with the certainty that it would never be safe. Every relationship—romantic, family, friends—became a mirror reflecting back my own patterns.

If I’m being honest, that first deep dive into attachment theory hit me like a tidal wave. I began to see all the places in my life where fear had masqueraded as independence, where anxiety dressed up as control, and where my deepest longings for love and acceptance were hidden beneath layers of armor.

Cue the painful self-recognition.

There’s nothing quite like that moment you realize:

I’ve been living the same story on repeat.

I’ve pushed people away when I needed them most, convinced myself I was better off alone, and then felt resentful and lonely in the aftermath.

I’ve longed for deep connection but sabotaged it before it could ever become real.

This work—this intense, honest, at times excruciating work—of unraveling those patterns was not easy. There were moments I wanted to turn back, to retreat to the “safety” of my old defenses. But something in me knew it was time for a different story.

So I learned.

I learned about my triggers and my nervous system, about childhood wounds and why certain moments felt so unbearably raw. I learned to pause instead of react, to speak my needs (even when my voice trembled), and to offer myself the compassion I’d always reserved for everyone else.

And then, slowly, something profound began to happen.

I softened.

My defenses, once rigid and automatic, started to loosen their grip.

I could let love in—and I could let myself out.

I deepened.

Instead of living on the surface, scanning for threat, I started to anchor myself in the truth of my own experience, daring to feel it all.

The good, the hard, the wildly beautiful mess of being human.

I found acceptance for the parts of myself I’d tried so hard to hide or fix.

Forgiving myself for past missteps and miscommunications.

Offering grace to the version of me who was just doing her best with the tools she had.

I began to see myself through a different lens.

One that whispered, “Anything is possible. You can choose something new.”

And so, bit by bit, I left behind the old ways that didn’t serve me. The anxiety and stress abated. Self-confidence rose up—like a phoenix from the ashes.

This is why you’ll see so much phoenix imagery in everything I do. Because I know what it feels like to burn down the old and rise, brighter and freer, from the flames.

You can too.

With you in the messy middle,

Sarah