What if relationships are in fact transactional? Rethinking reciprocity, care, and worth

The idea that relationships should not be "transactional" is in line with the anti-capitalist values around which I live my life and practice therapy. It is true that healthy relationships are built on more than give-and-take exchanges of favors, but the key word is "more than." Those exchanges are still there, and they are still crucial. While it's romantic and Hallmark card-esque to believe that love and friendship should be unconditional and that care is best when it's given freely without keeping score, the reality is that people have nervous systems, trauma histories, bills, and time constraints. Therefore, many relationships must function, at least in part, on a transactional level. This doesn't make them shallow or selfish; it makes them honest. The implications of this reality are a common theme in my sessions, so let's dig into the questions I hear most often:

Am I bad person if I don't want to give when I haven't received?

This question is commonly wrapped up in shame. If you feel resentful, empty, or taken for granted, it's not a moral failing to desire evidence that your giving matters. Reciprocity isn't about manipulation or keeping a ledger; it's about knowing you're in a relationship that can carry you when you're tired from doing the heavy lifting. Sometimes, short periods of pulling back or withdrawing from the other person are not a punishment but a way of noticing "This isn't mutual right now, and I matter, too."

But don't mature, securely attached people show up no matter what?

It depends. If you're in a long-term relationship of any kind, there will be seasons of imbalance. One person might give more during a crisis, an illness, or a rough patch. That's part of trust. But when the imbalance is chronic, or oyu're always the one holding things up ,the expectation to keep showing up anyway stops sounding like love and starts sounding like martyrdom. And martyrdom isn't a virtue when it comes at the expense of your own health or dignity.

Some people enter into relationships with different capacities. Chronic illness, disability, neurodivergence, and mental health struggles might mean they can't offer care of presence in the same way or at the same time as others. That doesn't make them less worthy of connection; it means the terms of the relationship will need to be different. In these cases, non-reciprocity isn't a red flag but something you both understand from the beginning and mutually consent to. Saying, "I know you may not be able to show up the same way I do, and I want this relationship with that in mind" is an attestation of informed consent and is disability justice in action. However, when that consent isn't explicit, when one person expects mutual care and the other assumes one-way giving will be okay, it can lead to burnout, confusion, or resentment. If your relationship wasn't build on clear terms and you find yourself struggling with imbalance, it doesn't make you selfish or less evolved to reassess what's sustainable. It is crucial, however, that you are transparent about that re-assessment. Consent goes both ways, and it's not more noble to silently suffer in the name of being the bigger person. It's okay to say "I want to give, but I also need to receive."

Sometimes the imbalance wasn't part of the original agreement. Perhaps both people entered the relationship assuming a certain kind of reciprocity, and then one person became disabled, burnt out, chronically ill, or learned something new about themselves that revealed needs they'd previously been unaware of. This can be destabilizing, not just practically but emotionally. It's common for the person whose needs have increased to feel guilt, grief, or shame: "They didn't sign up for this." "I feel like a burden." "I don't want to keep taking without giving back."

And the person on the other side might feel confused or overwhelmed, too: "I want to show up, but this feels heavier than I expected." "I don't know what the new rules are." "What does it mean about me that I feel exhausted by this?"

When one person's capacity shifts, the relationship often needs to be renegotiated, not because anyone's failed but because everyone is still allowed to have needs and limits. While grief may be a part of that process for both people, so is growth. What matters most isn't preserving the exact same dynamic forever but that both people continue to check in with honesty, clarity, and care. For example:

• Do we still want to be in this relationship, given what we each have to give and need to receive?

• What new supports, boundaries, or agreements would help this feel more sustainable?

• Is this a relationship we want to evolve or release?

Disability can shift how you participate in certain relationships, but it doesn't negate the consent that was once given. It just asks us to revisit that consent with updated information, mutual care, and the courage to grieve what's changed without guilt-tripping each other into staying the same.

"Should I decline connection if I know I can't reciprocate?"

This one is hard. Some people ask this out of integrity. They don’t want to hurt others by being inconsistent or unavailable. They worry that if they can’t offer steady care, they shouldn’t accept it either. You don't have to wait until you're healed, resourced, or perfect to be worthy of love .That said, you can be honest about your capacity. It's okay to say something like, "I really value you, and I'm in a place where I don't have a lot to offer. I want to be transparent about that, so you can decide if that feels right for you."

This kind of transparency helps everyone orient realistically, but it can get tricky, especially when there isn't a foundation of trust already built or when trauma-based projections impact how we interpret others' responses. For example, if you hold the belief, "No one wants to show up for me unless I'm showing up for them" -perhaps rooted in relational trauma- that can make it hard to trust care that's freely given. Even if a friend reassures you, "You're never too much, you can ask for what you need," it might feel impossible to take that at face value. If that friend has a history of people-pleasing themselves, the waters get even murkier. You might question their sincerity, whether they're coming from a sense of obligation, fawning, or fear of conflict. This creates a dynamic where both people are unsure what's being given freely and what's being given under duress.

In moments like this, clarity isn't about having perfect communication. It's about slowing down enough to ask:

• Are we both being honest about what we have to give?

• Do we trust each other to say no if we need to?

• Are we in this because we can or because we feel we should? (Note: the fact that you want to is assumed but not enough on its own)

You don't have to withdraw just because your capacity is limited, and you don't have to accept care you can't believe in. But, if you're both able to show up non-defensively, you can name the uncertainty and co-create a relationship that honors both people's realities.

When non-reciprocity feels like a threat: an autistic perspective

For many autistic people in particular, reciprocity in relationships is a regulating mechanism. While allistic folks might navigate relational ambiguity using intuition or flexible social scripts, autistic people often rely more on predictable patterns and clear rules to make sense of and participate in social dynamics. Trusting that someone will respond in kind, show up when they say they will, or make efforts proportional to ours can serve as an anchor in an otherwise overwhelming and unpredictable social world.

When mutuality is not there, the resulting cognitive dissonance can be deeply painful:

• "I thought we had an agreement, but the rules seem to have changed."

• "You said I could reach out any time, but now I feel like I've crossed a line I couldn't see."

• "If I don't understand how this relationship works, how can I know if I'm safe here?"

This distress might show up as a shutdown, rumination, obsessive analysis of past interactions, or as a strong pull to withdraw entirely. It's the autistic mind trying to protect itself from what it experiences as unreasonable or chaotic social data.

Consider a few other uniquely autistic dimensions of this experience:

• Monotropic focus on fairness or balance: Many autistic people experience strong cognitive-emotional full toward fairness, consistency, and symmetry in relationships because it feels congruent and stabilizing (not out of entitlement).

• Literal interpretations of expressed care: If a friend says "I'm. here for you any time," someone who interprets language literally is going to feel disappointed (at best) or betrayed (at worst) by behavior that contradicts this, like unanswered texts or uneven effort.

• Delayed processing and re-analysis: Autistic folks often re-process social situations long after they happen. A lack of reciprocity might not even register as hurtful until hours, days, weeks, or even months later when the mismatch between expectation and experience becomes clearer.

• Binary interpretations of relationships: Without enough consistent feedback, those who need a logical narrative, or "why" to feel safe may default to binary thinking: "either I matter, or I don’t; either this is safe, or it’s not." This coping strategy makes sense of what isn't spelled out explicitly for us, and it only becomes a problem when we get it wrong and take action/make decisions based on our incorrect interpretations.
  

When trauma history is layered on top of this, it amplifies the threat response. But even without trauma, autistic cognition often depends on relational logic, a sense of “if I do X, I can expect Y.” When Y doesn’t come, it can feel disorienting.

A more nuanced understanding of transactional relationships

"Transactional" isn't inherently bad. It just means there's an exchange. And for many of us, especially those with relational trauma histories, learning to expect reciprocity can be deeply reparative. We’re not meant to be endlessly self-sacrificing. We’re meant to belong in spaces where care is not just given but also received.