How to Walk Away From an Argument — Even When You Feel Misunderstood

I used to think an argument ended when we resolved it. Now I’m realizing it can end when I decide I’m done participating in it.

Sometimes you know an argument isn’t going anywhere, and you still can’t seem to walk away from it. You know you’re both getting irritated. You know you’re repeating yourselves.

You know continuing the conversation probably isn’t going to suddenly make the other person say, “You know what? You’re right. I completely understand now.”

But something keeps you there.

For me, that something has often been the feeling that if I walk away, I’m leaving something unresolved. Or worse, I’m letting the other person be right.

If someone says something I believe is completely untrue, how am I supposed to just walk away from that? If I feel accused, am I supposed to not defend myself? If someone communicates with me in a way I don’t like, does walking away mean I’m allowing it?

I think that’s part of why walking away from an argument can be so hard. Physically leaving the conversation isn’t necessarily the difficult part. It’s being able to leave without first getting the resolution you feel like you need.

The thing I’ve learned is that walking away doesn’t require me to resolve that feeling first. I can notice the urge to defend myself, recognize that the conversation isn’t getting anywhere, and stop participating anyway. 

I don’t have to agree, admit I was wrong, or convince the other person to see things my way before I leave the conversation. Sometimes the practical answer really is that simple: stop trying to finish the argument, step away, and put your attention back on what you actually want to be doing.

Recently, I had one of those moments with my husband.

And for once, I actually walked away.

I Already Knew Where This Argument Was Going

My husband and I were getting ready to take someone close to me to Milwaukee to visit a friend. The night before, I had told him we needed to leave at 10:00 the next morning.

Around 9:30, I noticed him washing dishes. It doesn’t usually take him very long to get dressed, but since we were supposed to leave soon, I reminded him.

“You know we’re leaving at 10.”

He responded:

“You never told me that.”

Immediately, I felt it.

This is still a trigger for me. When I know I told someone something and they respond with, “You never told me,” it doesn’t feel like they simply don’t remember. It feels like I’m being accused of not telling the truth.

And my instinct is to defend myself.

In the past, I probably would have. I would have told him that I absolutely did tell him. I might have explained that it was much more likely that he was distracted, wasn’t listening, or didn’t hear me.

Then he could have defended his version. And off we would go.

The frustrating part is that there was no way for either of us to prove what happened. We couldn’t roll back a camera and watch the conversation from the night before. So what exactly were we going to accomplish?

Probably nothing.

But we could have spent 15 or 30 minutes trying.

Author George Pransky describes something about arguments that helps me understand why conversations like this can go on so long. We usually enter them believing that if we can just explain our logic clearly enough, the other person will see why our version makes sense.

The problem is that the other person has a version that makes just as much sense to them. At some point, we may not be getting any closer to the truth. We may just be getting better at defending our respective versions of it.

This Time, I Walked Away

I didn’t tell him he was right. I didn’t decide that his response didn’t bother me. I didn’t suddenly become so calm that I no longer cared.

I just walked away.

I went and did something else that needed to be done so we could get out of the house.

That distinction feels important to me because I think I used to believe walking away required some kind of resolution first. I needed the other person to understand why I was upset. I needed to explain myself.

I needed to correct what I thought was wrong.

Then, maybe, I could let it go.

But if I have to get someone else to understand my position before I can walk away from an argument, I’m still depending on that person to help me end it. What I’m realizing is that I don’t necessarily need their participation.

I can stop participating.

Walking Away Can Be the Boundary

We talk a lot about communicating boundaries. And sometimes that’s necessary. But I’m realizing that a boundary can also be something I do.

That morning, I knew the conversation was triggering me. I also knew where it was likely to go if I stayed in it.

So my boundary was simple:

I wasn’t going to stay in an unproductive conversation.

I didn’t announce it. I didn’t explain it. I walked away.

That didn’t control what my husband said or how he communicated. It controlled what I was willing to continue participating in.

And once I was out of the argument, I could think about something I probably wouldn’t have thought about if I had stayed there trying to prove my point.

What do I actually want right now?

Did I Want to Be Right, or Did I Want to Leave?

That question has been helping me more and more. Because in the middle of an argument, the argument itself can suddenly become the priority.

Before his comment, my goal was to get out of the house by 10. Thirty seconds later, my goal could have become proving that I had, in fact, told him we were leaving at 10.

Those goals were competing with each other. I could spend the next 20 minutes establishing who was right. Or I could use those 20 minutes to help us get out of the house.

What did I actually want?

I wanted to go to Milwaukee. I wanted to get there on time. And I wanted us to enjoy the day.

Luckily, that morning I wanted those things more than I wanted to win the argument.

Walking Away Kept the Argument from Taking Over

When I came back into the kitchen, I didn’t pick up where we’d left off. I noticed that the kitchen looked really nice, so I told my husband that.

Because it did.

I appreciated that he had cleaned it. Then I asked him how long he thought it would take him to get ready.

He said at least 30 minutes.

Instead of saying, “See, this is why I told you last night…”

I asked whether there was anything he could skip so we could leave sooner. He thought about it and realized there was. He could be ready in about 15 minutes.

And he was.

We got to Milwaukee on time. More importantly, we got there without an unnecessary argument hanging over the day.

The issue that had seemed so important when he said, “You never told me that” suddenly wasn’t very important at all.

Walking Away Doesn’t Mean I Can Never Bring It Up Again

I think this is another reason I’ve sometimes had trouble letting an argument go. There can be this feeling of: If I don’t address it now, when will I?

But walking away from an argument doesn’t take away my ability to talk about something later. If something continues to bother me, I can bring it up when we’re both calmer. In fact, if something genuinely matters to me, that’s probably a better time to talk about it.

I’ve found that trying to resolve something when both people are already upset is usually a recipe for an unproductive conversation.

But I’m also starting to give myself permission not to make a promise that every unresolved disagreement will eventually be resolved. Maybe I bring it up later. Maybe I bring it up and realize the conversation still isn’t productive, so I drop it again.

Or maybe, with a little time and distance, I realize I don’t actually need to discuss it at all.

That possibility is newer for me.

George Pransky describes something similar: when couples back away from a sensitive issue instead of continuing while they’re upset, the issue can look different the next time they think about it. Sometimes it even loses importance altogether.

I find that reassuring. Time doesn’t only give me another opportunity to have the conversation. Sometimes it changes whether the conversation needs to happen at all.

I Don’t Have to Finish Every Argument

I used to put much more importance on being right. Not because I wanted to “win” every conversation, but because when I felt misunderstood or wrongly accused, correcting it felt important.

Now I’m starting to see how much power I was giving those moments. Someone else could say something I disagreed with, and suddenly I had a problem I needed to solve.

But maybe I don’t.

Someone can remember something differently than I do. Someone can communicate in a way I wish they wouldn’t. Someone can even believe something about me that I don’t believe is true.

I can still have boundaries. I can still address patterns that genuinely matter. But I don’t have to resolve every disagreement the moment it appears.

Sometimes walking away from an argument isn’t avoiding the problem.

Sometimes walking away is how I handle it.

I do think there’s a difference between stepping away because continuing isn’t helping and withdrawing from someone as a way of shutting them out. John Gottman uses the term stonewalling to describe when someone tunes out and turns away from their partner during conflict. That’s different from what I’m trying to do.

I don’t want to shut my husband out. I want to recognize when continuing a particular conversation isn’t getting us anywhere and stop participating in it. I’m walking away from the argument, not the relationship. 

I can leave the conversation without deciding the other person was right. I can leave without getting them to understand me. I can leave without knowing whether we’ll ever come back to it.

And I can put my attention back on the question that the argument made me forget:

What do I actually want right now?