What’s the attachment?

Image by Şahin Sezer Dinçer from Pixabay

Before moving to England, my colleagues and I, as part of our training, not only studied Bowlby’s work extensively but also underwent a deep analysis of our own attachment styles. It was clear to us, as students and as emerging therapists, that attachment provides a fundamental framework for understanding the manoeuvres of our subconscious. Our attachment patterns shape how we perceive and relate to others (for clients, this includes the therapist) and to the world itself. As trainee therapists, we were often overwhelmed by the analytic work required to reconstruct and heal these attachments. Yet, it was a crucial process, helping us uncover and understand not only our own relational issues but also those brought to therapy by our clients.

One day, during my early student years, I had the privilege of translating from English to Italian for a workshop led by a very renowned American professor. He was a leading expert in cognitive-behavioural therapy and a past president of the Association for Behavioural and Cognitive Therapies. He has since passed away, and I won’t reveal his name, as I believe there is nothing for him to gain from this story.

During the workshop, a member of the audience asked how he incorporated attachment theory into his work. His response shocked us all: “What’s attachment theory?” At first, we thought he was joking. I even double-checked my translation of the question, just in case I had misunderstood. But no, he wasn’t joking. Eventually, he acknowledged recognising Bowlby’s name but admitted that he knew little about the theory.

As I write this now, I can’t help but reflect on that moment. If such a renowned professor was unfamiliar with attachment theory, how many others might also be unaware? And yet, it’s something everyone should know about, our own programming, our early patterns, the very foundations of how we connect with others.

Our own programming (some) and Winnie-the-Pooh

Our early childhood relationships with our parents shape the way we connect with others throughout our lives. Attachment theory identifies four main patterns: secure, dismissing, preoccupied, and fearful. These patterns run deep, often influencing our relationships in ways we barely notice. Surely, understanding this should be fundamental not just for therapists but for anyone seeking to navigate the complexities of human connection. To describe the attachment styles, I decided to conduct a thought experiment. I ask forgiveness from the attachment experts who have studied these patterns professionally, as my intent here is not academic precision but to help those unfamiliar with the theory gain a clearer understanding. To do this, I’ve turned to the beloved characters of Winnie-the-Pooh.

You may already know a little about A.A. Milne, the creator of Winnie-the-Pooh. Milne was a British author who drew inspiration for these characters from his son, Christopher Robin, and his son’s stuffed animals. But what adds depth to Milne’s work is the context of his life. Milne was a veteran of World War I, a traumatic experience that profoundly shaped his worldview. Some scholars suggest that his writing, particularly Winnie-the-Pooh, reflects a longing for simplicity, connection, and comfort, a kind of psychological balm for the chaotic world he had endured.

This makes Winnie-the-Pooh an unexpectedly fitting framework for exploring attachment styles. The characters, though whimsical and childlike, embody rich and relatable emotional patterns that align with the four main styles of attachment.

Secure attachment: Christopher Robin

Secure attachment represents the quiet yet profound gift of consistent love and support. Those with secure attachment often grew up in environments where their parents, even amidst busy lives, made time to listen, care, and provide emotional warmth. This foundation of being seen, heard, and valued gives them the confidence to trust others, seek help when needed, and handle life’s challenges with resilience.

Christopher Robin embodies secure attachment beautifully, though I should clarify that in this thought experiment, I’m referring to how Christopher Robin behaves in the books, not his real-life relationship with his father. In reality, A.A. Milne’s son, the real Christopher Robin, reportedly harboured deep resentment toward his father, a relationship often described as strained and hostile. Despite this, the fictional Christopher Robin, as crafted by Milne, remains a symbol of calm, steady confidence and dependable connection, qualities that align well with secure attachment. He moves through life with calm assurance, grounded in the trust that he is connected to others in a way that sustains him. When Pooh gets stuck in Rabbit’s burrow, Christopher doesn’t try to solve it all alone. He gathers his friends, valuing their ideas and efforts. This is the hallmark of secure attachment, it’s not about doing everything yourself but about trusting the web of relationships around you.

And Christopher isn’t just a giver of support; he knows how to ask for it too. In The House at Pooh Corner, he shares his fears about growing up and leaving the Hundred Acre Wood. He doesn’t hide his vulnerability. Instead, he trusts that Pooh will understand, that their bond is strong enough to hold both joy and uncertainty.

This is the essence of secure attachment: it is the courage to rely on others without fear of rejection, to lead with confidence and follow with trust. It’s not about being invincible but about knowing that love, given and received, is the anchor that steadies you through life’s storms. Secure attachment isn’t a fortress; it’s a home; open, warm, and full of connection.

Child Dog Puddle

If you search for "Child Dog Puddle" on YouTube or enter the following link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xa54Xc6AG44, you’ll find a charming video featuring a child named Little Arthur strolling through the woods with his 12-year-old Shar Pei, Watson.

During their walk, Arthur takes a break to play in a puddle. He splashes through the water, jumps around, explores the surroundings, and repeatedly returns to Watson before heading back to splash some more.

This delightful video encapsulates the dynamic between exploration and connection, with Arthur’s playful curiosity and Watson’s calm, supportive presence creating a harmonious interaction.

Arthur, symbolically representing the inner child, is carefree, curious, and fully immersed in his exploration. Meanwhile, Watson stays still and doesn’t interfere. The dog seems relaxed yet attentive, occasionally turning his head to check on Arthur when he ventures further away. Watson acts as a safe base, providing quiet reassurance.

Arthur’s behaviour reflects the hallmarks of secure attachment: confidence and a willingness to explore, combined with the knowledge that a secure connection is always there when needed. Watson, in turn, embodies the qualities of a secure base. His stillness, relaxed posture, and attentive awareness demonstrate trust and a protective instinct reminiscent of caregiving behaviours in attachment relationships.

Importantly, Watson does not disrupt Arthur’s independence or exploration. Instead, he offers a calm and supportive presence, allowing Arthur the freedom to engage with his environment while maintaining a sense of safety. This delicate balance—providing space yet remaining connected—is the essence of secure attachment. Watson’s behaviour mirrors the therapeutic benefits of unconditional love and companionship, offering Arthur both stability and freedom.

Hungarian psychoanalyst Ferenczi took this idea even further, suggesting that healing in therapy isn’t solely facilitated by the therapeutic relationship itself but also by the client’s ability to feel the love and authenticity of their therapist. Ferenczi believed that a patient’s awareness of their therapist’s personal qualities and genuine care is essential for healing.

Personally, I agree. Therapy, at its core, is about feelings—and the primary emotion is love. If neither the client nor the therapist has love in their lives or remains disconnected from it, then their understanding of themselves, life, nature, and the universe will inevitably be limited.

This is my subjective way of saying that therapy is more than a "state of mind"; it is, in fact, a "state of being." With this perspective, I hope you can forgive the simplicity of my example. Watson doesn’t speak, but his silence, behaviour, and attitude reveal profound processes that words can only attempt to describe.

Preoccupied attachment: Tigger

Preoccupied attachment often originates in early environments where love and attention were inconsistent; sometimes offered, other times withheld or conditional. This creates a lingering uncertainty in relationships, leaving individuals seeking constant reassurance that they are valued and their needs will be met. As adults, they become hyper-attuned to external validation, engaging in behaviours designed to secure approval or avoid the risk of rejection, judgment, or even punishment.

Consider the example of a client who shared, “All the time I see a church, I genuflect, and I don’t even believe in God!” When viewed through the lens of preoccupied attachment, this behaviour reflects a deeply ingrained pattern of compliance. The act of genuflecting isn’t about faith; it’s about aligning with what feels "expected" or "safe." Likely shaped in a childhood where love or approval was tied to obedience or conformity, the genuflection becomes a reflex to avoid potential judgment or punishment, even if it no longer aligns with their personal beliefs.

This need to meet perceived external expectations highlights the underlying anxiety of preoccupied attachment. For this client, genuflecting is a way to maintain a sense of safety by adhering to familiar rules, ensuring they don’t risk rejection or disapproval. The behaviour is not about belief but about managing the fear of falling short of what others might expect.

Contrast this with fearful attachment (which we will discuss later), where similar behaviours may stem from internal conflict rather than a need for external validation. In the case of fearful attachment, genuflecting might represent an internal struggle between seeking the comfort of structure or ritual and fearing potential repercussions—such as judgment, rejection, or punishment—for non-conformity. This act reflects anxiety about the consequences of breaking the 'rules' rather than a compulsive desire for reassurance.

In both cases, the behaviour reveals how early experiences shape not just our relationships with others but also our interactions with institutions, rituals, and social expectations. For this attachment style, I have chosen Tigger. Tigger bounces around, craving attention and validation. He’s lovable but exhausting because he constantly needs reassurance that he’s valued and noticed. His energy and charm often mask his underlying anxiety—a worry that if he stops bouncing, he might go unnoticed or unloved. This relentless pursuit of attention reflects the hallmark of preoccupied attachment: a fear of not being enough or of being forgotten.

Fearful Attachment: Eeyore

Fearful attachment is a delicate paradox; a yearning for closeness, inclusiveness, and the safety of being seen, heard, and loved, yet being equally terrified of what that closeness might bring. This attachment style is often shaped by chaotic early relationships, where caregivers were consumed by their own trauma or struggles. Their responses to the child’s needs might have been unpredictable, sometimes warm, other times dismissive or aggressive, creating an emotional landscape that was neither stable nor safe.

As adults, people with fearful attachment walk a fine line between longing for connection and retreating from it. They crave the reassurance of belonging but fear the vulnerability that comes with it. They might push others away or assume rejection is inevitable, even while hoping to be included and valued.

Take Eeyore, the ever-gloomy donkey, as an example. He wants to feel close to his friends, to be part of the group, but he assumes that this connection is fleeting. He’ll accept a hug but braces for the moment you’ll let go, convinced it won’t last. His gloomy outlook is not just pessimism—it’s a form of self-protection, a way of shielding himself from the disappointment of being left out or overlooked.

I once worked with a client who told me, “I want to be invited to say so.” That one sentence encapsulates the heart of fearful attachment. It reflects a longing to feel included and validated—to be given permission to step into a space where they can be heard. But it also highlights their deep hesitation, born out of a fear that reaching out on their own might result in rejection or exclusion.

At the same time, this desire to "be invited" is deeply complex because, for someone with fearful attachment, closeness itself can feel threatening. It’s as though they’re saying, “Please invite me so I can feel loved—but also, please don’t, because I’m not sure I know how to handle being loved.”

Many of us struggle to love ourselves, and when that foundation is missing, it becomes even harder to accept love from others. The idea of being genuinely cared for can feel so foreign that trusting it—or even believing it’s real—becomes a challenge. Without a sense of safety or preparation, receiving love can feel overwhelming, like stepping into uncharted territory where the risks seem to outweigh the rewards.

Dismissing attachment: Rabbit

Dismissing attachment often develops in environments where emotional needs were left unmet. This might happen when parents were emotionally unavailable, whether due to working long hours, dealing with their own struggles, or simply not recognising the importance of providing consistent emotional support. Children in these situations learn to rely on themselves and suppress their needs for closeness, as seeking it often led to disappointment.

As adults, individuals with dismissing attachment prefer independence and emotional distance. They avoid relying on others, not because they don’t want connection, but because they’ve learned not to trust that others will meet their emotional needs. When things become too emotionally intense, they disengage, retreating to the safety of self-reliance.

For this attachment style, I’ve chosen Rabbit as an example. Rabbit is emotionally distant and hyper-focused on tasks like managing his garden. He keeps himself busy, avoids "messy" emotions, and rarely allows himself to depend on others. Rabbit’s high walls are a form of self-protection, built from the belief that it’s safer to handle things alone than risk the vulnerability of relying on others.

Dismissing attachment isn’t about a lack of feelings; it’s about a deep-seated fear that sharing those feelings will lead to rejection or unmet needs. Like Rabbit, individuals with this attachment style maintain control by keeping their emotions, and often, others at arm’s length. It’s a way of saying, “I don’t need anyone,” when deep down, they may still long for connection but feel it’s safer not to hope for it

Reminder for the reader: Attachment patterns aren’t set in stone; they can evolve with experiences and growth.