When to Stop Fanning the Flames

By Laural Jacobs

We’ve all heard the metaphor; “relationships are like fire, they begin with a spark, flare into flame, and if you’re lucky, burn bright and steady for years. But anyone who’s ever battled with a campfire will know the truth: fire can be temperamental, and without the right fuel, even the most promising blaze dies out, no matter how much breath or belief you pour into it.

Personally, I’ve always fancied myself the Firestarter at the braai or bonfire, volunteering to light the flames, politely rejecting help, and approaching the task with a quiet resolve. There I’d be, hunched over, coaxing the smallest ember, blowing until I nearly passed out, holding tight to the idea that I could bring it to life with sheer will. Sometimes, sure, I’d get a flicker, even a flame. But just when I thought I’d cracked it, it would fizzle out again. Desperate, I’d add a splash of lighter fluid. The flames would leap, dramatic and thrilling, and then vanish just as quickly as they came. Because I hadn’t laid the foundation properly. I started wrong.

It’s a lot like how many of us treat our relationships. We try and try again, hoping that one more kind word, one more compromise, one more act of love will reignite what’s fading. But sometimes, no matter how determined we are, the fire simply refuses to catch. Not because we didn’t try hard enough, but because we were using the wrong kind of fuel. Or worse, because there was no fuel left.

We don’t give up, though. Because of that one maddening, stubborn, beautiful thing called hope. Psychologists call it optimism bias, the belief that the future will be better, despite all signs pointing the other way. We convince ourselves that tomorrow they’ll change, next week they’ll see us, next month they’ll finally love us the way we’ve longed for. But too often, hope becomes a form of emotional procrastination, a buffer we cling to so we don’t have to face the pain of letting go.

Research shows that people stay in unhealthy relationships not just because of love, but because of fear, learned helplessness, and low self-esteem. Trauma bonding and emotional manipulation make it even harder to walk away, so we accept the emotional breadcrumbs. We settle for warmth from ashes. Not because we’re foolish, but because, somewhere deep down, we’ve forgotten what it feels like to be warmed by a real flame.

We’re taught that love, trust, compromise and communication are the pillars of any strong relationship; and to be fair, they are. But when the structure is crumbling, even the strongest pillars won’t hold it up. Tossing oxygen on a soggy log won’t spark anything and overcompensating, always being the one to bend, apologise, or make the peace, can wear you thin. Studies show that one-sided emotional labour is draining. It leads to stress, anxiety, even depression. You end up hollowed out, a shell of yourself, a burnt-out version of the person you once were.

But let’s flip the script, because sometimes, a fire is necessary. Nature teaches us this. Controlled burns are used to clear old growth and make space for new, stronger vegetation. Some relationships, painful as they are, are part of a necessary burn. They scorch the surface but leave the roots intact. You might be left standing in the aftermath, scorched, shaken, but not destroyed. You’re still here and if you pause to look around, not in shame but in curiosity, you might learn something. You might see where things went wrong. You might even see yourself more clearly.

Cry if you must. There’s science behind it. Emotional tears help release stress hormones, allowing your body to reset. Then, slowly, begin again. Not to chase the same fire, but to nurture something healthier, steadier. You are not the flames. You are the phoenix, the tree that stands, singed but resilient and this time, you get to choose how you grow back.

Let the ones with watering cans come in and help you, allow them to love you through it. Ignore the ones who slow down to gawk at your ruins, the ones who drive by, hoping to see you stay broken. They are not your audience. This is not their story.

So, here’s your gentle reminder: if the fire you’re fighting for keeps burning you, it may be time to serve notice. Not out of anger or failure, but because you finally remember that you deserve more than smoke. You deserve light, warmth, peace.

As the saying goes, when you deal, you heal. When you don’t, you won’t. Healing doesn’t always come in grand, cinematic scenes. Sometimes it’s slow, quiet, almost imperceptible, but it comes! If you stop feeding dead fires and start tending to the forest within, your next season will be better, brighter and yours.