Written by mare.
Photo by Jeniffer Lim-Tamkican
Consider me bitter, but in non-monogamous relationships, “autonomy” often shows up as avoidance.
That’s an oversimplification, sure. But I think it’s worth digging into. When I first explored non-monogamy, I was immediately hit with a clusterfuck of nonsense: dishonesty, fetishization, double or triple standards, and binary thinking. The overconsumption was painfully obvious. I met people who used lovers to escape their pasts or sought the opposite of a current partner just for the thrill of something “different” or “taboo.”
“What often draws or deters people to non-monogamy is the emotional responsibility—or lack thereof.”
These issues aren’t unique to non-monogamy, but they are amplified. While there’s nothing inherently wrong with seeking companionship for any reason, what concerns me is how—and why—autonomy is wielded in conflict.
What often draws or deters people to non-monogamy is the emotional responsibility—or lack thereof. Many joke about struggling with their own emotions, let alone managing someone else’s, and enter non-monogamy expecting to negotiate emotional boundaries. But when lovers treat each other as adversaries, especially in conflict, does less emotional investment really mean less responsibility? And how has autonomy become a tool to evade accountability? Most importantly, how can we recognize the difference between self-preservation and avoidance?
When I think about “the work,” I always return to one core belief: our interpersonal relationships shape our ability to tackle larger societal issues. Protests and policies mean little if we reenact systemic harm in our homes. We can’t build a better world by replicating the same oppressive dynamics.
So, when we’re seeking autonomy in relationships, are we shielding ourselves from the hard work of accountability and growth? Self-determination has historically been used to justify all kinds of relational horrors, just like our forefathers declaring, “All men are created equal,” while enslaving generations. And if we’re serious about liberation—especially when managing conflicts—we must ask: What part of the oppressor is showing up in me?
Oppression teaches us that difference is a problem. We’re told we can’t coexist if we’re not the same. Colorblind platitudes urge us to “see past” differences, and we’re categorized into boxes before we can even express ourselves. Conflict naturally highlights our differences in opinion and experience, making it easy to label disagreements as “bad.” We assume issues are beyond repair or that our once-glowing self-image is too tarnished—so we detach. Are we treating ourselves and others as disposable when they fail to meet our ideals? Are we acknowledging how identity and systemic issues—like racism, classism, and transphobia—manifest in our relationships? Do we extend more grace or mistreatment based on who we find conventionally attractive or easier to deal with?
“At its best, non-monogamy teaches us to give more of ourselves, not less— to unlearn possessiveness, combativeness, and reactivity. Messiness is to be expected, so why do we work so hard to avoid cleaning up after ourselves?”
Because systems of oppression impact us, we can’t always trust our first reactions. Even our view of self-governance is often framed as an individual process, but we don’t exist in isolation. Our actions affect others and are shaped by social constructs, including toxic individualism. Ignoring this has led to environmental destruction—too many people dismissing the collective cost of their conveniences. So, what happens when we do this in our relationships? Without intentional, diligent efforts, we risk perpetuating the very dynamics—dominance, exploitation, neglect—that we want to dismantle. And if non-monogamy is meant to disrupt the status quo, genuine autonomy requires self-awareness, honesty, responsibility, and mutual care.
I’ve questioned whether I’m being too sensitive. Mainstream self-help pushes individualism under the guise of healing, making it difficult to discern when to ask more of my community and myself. And while I suspect we’re being sold toxic individualism in pretty, lavender-scented packages, I can’t deny the benefits of solitude. Practices like meditation and hermitage cultivate patience and clarity. At its best, non-monogamy teaches us to give more of ourselves, not less—and to use self-focus to unlearn possessiveness, combativeness, and reactivity. Messiness is to be expected, so why do we work so hard to avoid cleaning up after ourselves?
Instead of using autonomy to escape emotional responsibility, we can use it to become attuned to our needs and appreciate the often grueling process of self-awareness. A deeper understanding of ourselves allows us to engage with others without falling into rescuing, shaming, or discarding patterns.
Through this lens, my relationship with myself isn’t just about defining rules and boundaries but about observing human complexity from the driver’s seat of my experience. This means pushing past the discomfort of facing my thoughts, fears, and shadows—so I can be better equipped to hold space for those realities in others.
But whew, chile—it’s a lot. Adages like “people never change” or “you must love yourself before loving anyone else” keep us stuck, assuming we already know how a situation will end. The struggle to break free from harmful cycles makes us cling to self-reliance, convincing us never to expose our vulnerabilities. Ironically, this only fuels the self-centered culture we claim to despise.
“Unethical non-monogamy confirms our worst fears. Couples “open up” their relationships to fix years of incompatibility, feeding insecurities about whether “happily ever after” is possible. Individuals demand unconditional acceptance while disregarding harm, reflecting their inability to set boundaries or forgive themselves.”
As a Black, queer person, I’ve encountered white members of my community who, despite their education in transformative justice, weaponized tone policing and white tears when confronted. Others treated non-monogamy as an endless buffet of new relationship energy (NRE), neglecting existing relationships under the guise of “capacity.” Some preached relationship anarchy while defaulting to toxic primary partners. And then some made “casual” their entire personality, only to mask their immaturity.
Over time, I realized most people weren’t truly invested in autonomy—they were invested in their right to self-govern, especially in conflict. Autonomy becomes a free pass when people stray from agreements, self-awareness, or objective morality. Ruptures fester, or blissful ignorance prevails—all in the name of “protecting my peace.” I once clung to “protecting my peace” like a lifeline. It cost me jobs and relationships. I went from a passive people-pleaser to a bulldozer, tasting the power of cutting people off. And because I started by blaming myself, once I accepted that I’d been harmed, I refused to consider my accountability. I see this same indignance in others—people who disengage rather than repair, who prioritize their pain over the harm they’ve inflicted.
So, how do we distinguish between autonomy and avoidance? I say practice leading with truth. Declare your needs and intentions without manipulating others. Manipulation is often unintentional and takes many forms, whether through withholding, omitting, deflecting, or projecting shame. These tactics interfere with others’ ability to make informed choices about their lives, so they’re essential to name and seek out within ourselves.
Examples? Telling a partner you’ll only have protected sex with others, then lying by omission—violating their bodily autonomy. Agreeing to something you’re uncomfortable with to seem “chill,” then resenting it later. Failing to clarify if you’re not looking for commitment, allowing ambiguity to serve your interests. Demanding someone choose you over another relationship or lifestyle just to soothe your insecurities. And my personal favorite? White people entering relationships with people of the global majority without wanting the responsibility of earning trust, recognizing fetishization, or masquerading as “too woke” to harm, even when it’s laid out for them.
Autonomy should foster harmony, not fortresses. Our lack of relational skills and individualism prevents repair and progress in small or marginalized communities. But let’s be clear: we all make mistakes. We fear hurting others, being seen as bad, and doing irreparable damage. So we lie and hide. But that fear should push us toward more conscious engagement, not further into avoidance.
Instead of lashing out in self-defense, we can view mistakes as opportunities for compassion:
- Ending a connection with care, planning pacing, and reiterating boundaries.
- Staying in relationships through conflict rather than catastrophizing or pathologizing mistakes.
- Admitting when we’re wrong—even when we could get away with it.
- Apologizing first—not to take blame, but to model self-awareness.
Autonomy and responsibility aren’t opposites. Genuine autonomy isn’t about doing whatever we want without consequence—it’s about making choices with an awareness of their ripple effects. It’s about care, integrity, and showing up—not just for ourselves but for the collective liberation we claim to seek.
About the Author:
mare is an oat milk latte-loving gay empowered by vulnerability and humor. when not writing, they enjoy collecting yellow objects, cooing at fluffy critters, and evening yoga. Follow them here.