When I first wrote my Beginner’s Guide to Relationship Agreements a little over a year ago, I described agreements as a liberatory alternative to rules because they are more collaborative and flexible and because they are rooted in shared values. A year later, I still understand why so many people find them useful. Agreements help with clarity and can feel like anchors in the complexities of non-monogamy. They make the unspoken explicit and that alone can bring relief.
But over time, I have come to another harder conclusion: in reality, agreements often function less as liberatory tools and more as rules in disguise. They are softened by gentler language but the underlying impulse to control is the same. Many people hold onto agreements with the same weight and rigidity as vows. What was supposed to be “good enough for now, safe enough to try” becomes a binding contract, either obeyed or broken. Once agreements are treated like this, they invite punishment.
So many people say they want accountability when an agreement isn’t upheld, but what they really want is punishment. True accountability means acknowledging the impact of one’s actions, taking responsibility, and engaging in repair. Punishment demands contrition. It requires someone to prove how sorry they are through apology rituals, visible displays of regret, and acceptance of imposed consequences. That urge to punish reveals a lack of trust. If accountability must be accompanied by contrition, it means one person does not trust the other’s self-awareness, integrity, or capacity to grow without external enforcement. Responsibility isn’t received as real unless it comes with proof. So agreements, which could have been scaffolding for dialogue, instead become evidence in a trial, wielded as tools to restore a sense of control and order rather than to cultivate connection.
I have become even more cautious about making agreements than I used to be. They can still be useful but they are not inherently liberatory. At their best, they are temporary supports that help people build trust and navigate uncertainty. At their worst, they reproduce the dynamics of hierarchy and control that non-monogamy has the potential to move beyond.
So the questions I ask now are less about what agreements should look like, and more about what they reveal: Do I trust my partner or do I trust the agreements to keep them in line? Do I want accountability or do I want contrition? If what I’m really after is punishment, then what does that say about the kind of relationship I am building? Because ultimately, no agreement can be a substitute for trust. Agreements can clarify but they cannot create safety where it is absent.
It’s worth noting that the desire for contrition and apology is valid. Of course we want to feel that our pain is recognized and that our partner cares enough to show it. But if someone takes responsibility and still we find ourselves thinking that it’s not enough, that’s a signal worth examining. What would be enough? Is what you’re asking for realistic based on what you know about your partner and how they show care? If nothing they do feels sufficient, perhaps the real issue is the level of trust and alignment within the relationship itself.
When it comes down to it, agreements are not the heart of a relationship, trust is. Agreements can shape the container, but they cannot replace the substance of care, integrity, and choice. If agreements become the foundation, we risk building relationships on control rather than connection. Liberatory love asks more of us. It asks us to step beyond the so-called safety of contracts and into trust. It asks us to believe that accountability is possible without punishment or “consequences,” that repair can happen, not because an agreement demands it, but because love and integrity guide us there. That, to me, is the work. Not perfecting the wording and language of our agreements, but cultivating the kind of trust where agreements become less necessary and where liberation, rather than control, is what sustains the bond.
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