The Roche limit is an astronomy term that refers to a planet’s "too-close" boundary for anything trying to orbit it in one piece. 

 

Imagine a moon made of cosmic Play-Doh cruising around a planet. 

 

From far away, the planet’s gravity tugs on the whole moon pretty evenly, so it stays together. 

 

So, that moon might vainly think to itself:

 

 

Now, under certain conditions, yes, that moon will make its dream come true. But in most cases, its intended orbit won’t sustain itself, because it lacks balance. 

 

So, when that planet pulls much harder on the side of the moon facing it than on the far side, something starts to break.

 

 

That uneven tug starts grabbing at the Play-Doh moon from one side and yanking mercilessly. Not because it wants to hurt its would-be moon, but rather the gravitational pull is too strong. At some point, the moon can’t hold itself together. It stretches, cracks, and breaks into pieces. 

 

Parts of it crash into the surface of the planet (unless it's a gas giant), while other chunks spread out and become rings, instead of forming (or staying) a single moon.

 

If you want an even dumber visual of what I’m talking about, a squishy ball left out on the floor by a toddler can flirt with a vacuum… until, of course, the vacuum remembers it’s a vacuum.

 

 

We find something we want to be close to, and we start orbiting. And when the orbit is unstable, we don’t fix it. We don’t name it. We just keep circling and hope physics won’t notice.

 

But if you’ve ever stayed in a job, a relationship, or a situation because it felt almost right, you already understand the Roche limit. You can feel the pull. You can feel the imbalance. But instead of dealing with it, you stay in orbit. You tell yourself you’re being mature. You’re being patient. You’re being loyal. Nope.

 

And this is where the comparison between us and our celestial brethren comes to a screeching halt. 

We love to pretend we’re immune from the physics that govern the universe, because we’re different and special and have opposable thumbs. 

 

Unfortunately, we are not immune to the physical laws that paved the way for our improbable existence. And unlike asteroids and moons, we know when something hurts.

 

We are human beings with feelings and goals and dreams, not inanimate space rocks. We feel love and hope and rage and grief and awe. So if we play ignorant to our own Roche limits, there will be consequences. 

 

At some point, something has to give, and it will give:

I know, sometimes I can come across as someone who likes to take a sledgehammer to structures and norms for sport. In fact, one of you recently wrote to me and said, “I mean this kindly, but you’re an emotional anarchist.” (Thanks, Bill!)

 

While I can understand why some of you might think that, you’d be wrong.
 

I love containers. I love structure. I love values-driven life architecture.

 

I also love clear communication and boundaries that make sense. 

 

Stability is like oxygen to me.

 

Where I will pick up my sledgehammer with intention and enthusiasm is when I spot a structure that exists to support an emotional lie as opposed to an emotional reality. 

 

Not because I believe I know any better for anyone other than myself. But because I have lived the cost through bad jobs, bad relationships with two very good people inside of them, and situations where the only reason a structure exists is because of some level of internal emotional dishonesty that someone refuses to acknowledge.

 

I would rather break those structures on purpose, with honesty and clarity, because I know what happens firsthand when you try to white-knuckle your way through the fog, while telling yourself you are living with integrity or “doing the right thing” … and then someone still gets hurt.

 

The price we pay for building structures where we actively ignore our bodies and our feelings screaming at us that something is very wrong, that the call is coming from inside the house, is way too steep.

 

When we build our emotional houses on fault lines, it doesn’t matter if we use all the right materials, get the best contractors, and have everything we need to make a beautiful structurally sound home. 

 

If you've built yours on a fault line, when that earthquake hits, you’re done. Game over.

The worst feeling, though, is waking up and realizing you didn’t intentionally build your house on a fault line. You constructed it collaboratively or on your own with good intentions, optimism, and genuine belief in what could be. 

 

You laid the foundation when 2+2=4. 

 

And then one day, suddenly 2+2=5. 

 

 

The right job became the wrong job overnight.

 

The friendship you trusted started to feel like work.

 

The dream you were building started asking for a version of you that no longer exists.

 

The “perfect” relationship started requiring you to shrink.

 

This doesn’t always happen because someone did something wrong. Sometimes, sure, someone was an asshole. Sometimes there was deceit, neglect, selfishness, or straight-up disrespect. 

 

But a lot of the time, everyone involved is acting in good faith. 

 

Everyone is trying. Everyone is genuinely likable. Everyone has reasons. And still, the math changes. Needs shift. Capacity contracts. The version of you who said yes is not the version of you living in it now. The structure that worked in one season starts failing in another. Not because anyone is a villain, but because humans aren’t static. 

 

Love and goodwill are real, and they still don’t guarantee alignment.

 

 

 

Sometimes it’s just the quiet part that needs to be said out loud. The sentence you’ve been swallowing, the boundary you’ve been negotiating with yourself, the truth you’ve been treating like a threat. You say it. You name it. You adjust the orbit. 

 

And suddenly the Roche limit isn’t there anymore, because what made it dangerous wasn’t closeness itself. It was the uneven pull, the unspoken agreements, the silent resentment, the constant compensation. 

 

Balance is possible. Nothing has to break. But something does have to evolve.

 

Of course, sometimes you need to crash something on purpose. 

 

Sometimes you’ve got a fault line under your house. Or you’re the squishy ball rolling dangerously close to an alluring Dyson… I’ve lost my metaphors at this point. Whatever. Ball, house… you pick.

 

This is the moment where you cannot be dishonest with yourself. 

 

You have to run at your own discomfort and do what is right.

 

 

 

You know exactly what you’re feeling, you probably just don’t like the implications.

 

You don’t want to disappoint someone. You don’t want to go back on your word. You don’t want to commit the unforgivable sin of saying, "I’ve changed." You don’t want to break someone’s heart.

 

So, you dutifully decline to look at the feeling. If you don’t name it, if you shove it down into a teeny tiny box in your psyche, it won’t hurt anyone. Congratulations, you dumb little moon. You just created a planet with a gravitational pull that will one day eat you alive.

 

I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again. What you stay silent about is what you give unimaginable power to, to control your life.

 

To my emotionally constipated control freaks out there who love “logic” and "facts" more than breathing, hear me when I say this. The most practical and “logical” step you can take right now is to get ahead of whatever is happening in your life.

 

That’s not being irresponsible or emotionally harmful to others. That’s being a proactive realist who cares about consequences and the ultimate happiness of others.

 

 

I’m telling you all of these things as the woman who spent decades waiting too long, at every turn. Never giving up, never saying die. Demonizing and criminalizing my feelings and desires and inner knowing for the sake of “structure" and “stability." It got to the point where there were moments I would wake up and look in the mirror, and not really recognize the person looking back at me. It was terrifying.

 

But then I would straighten myself up. I would brush my hair, accidentally stab myself in the eye with mascara three times, and tell myself that the rest of me would eventually catch up. That, ethically, I knew I was doing all of the right things, and my heart would at some point get the memo.

 

Spoiler alert, my heart got louder and fussier and more obnoxious than you could possibly imagine.

 

Finally, when I hit my own Roche limit, I took action. I had no choice.

 

Yes, it was messy for a good bit. I had to do some restructuring and rebuilding in small and big ways. But I’m really happy now. It feels good to wake up, look in the mirror, and know that the life I have built around me and the structure that I am slowly constructing brick by brick now is fully aligned with not only my values, but also my heart.

 

This is the house I want to live in.

 

There may be cracks that come up later on in my life that I will need to address, but I won’t wait. I won’t hide. I won’t cover my eyes and vainly believe that with “good behavior" things will get magically better on their own.

 

I will, of course, still be the girl who believes in impossibilities to the point of reckless insanity. I’ll still be the girl who is idealistic and hopeful and loyal, and willing to double down when things get hard for those I love. I will still be the girl who struggles to walk away from something that still feels alive. You're stuck with me. I'm both a threat and promise. Love you.

 

 

Of course, you know you better than I do. And, ultimately, these are your choices.

 

You can pretend 2+2 is still 4 and keep living in a house that is actively warning you it’s not safe. Or you can accept that the math changed, and stop treating your body like it’s being dramatic.

 

Because the discovery of a fault line isn’t a moral failure.

 

It’s information.

 

And the sooner you treat it like information, the less damage it does when the shaking starts.

 

Life is complicated, but it’s also beautiful. To be human is to make mistakes. To be human is to have radically life-altering experiences that have a shelf life, that have a point where you say it’s time to move on.

 

 

Whomever it is you’re worried about, yes, “they’ll” be upset, and then "they’ll" be fine. I know that stings, but it's true. Your ex will get over it and find love again. Your boss will find someone to fill your position. Etc., etc. People recover. 

 

Heck, I was on the phone with my ex-husband for an hour earlier today laughing and giving him dating advice, which is not a sentence I ever thought I would type. Time really is a flat circle.

 

My point is, sometimes you need to say stop for something more meaningful and fulfilling to begin. That’s not a sacrifice. That’s knowing yourself. That’s wanting more for yourself and believing you deserve it.

 

But if you’ve gotten this far, I think you already knew that.

 

So go get it.

 

Go get your "more.”