The other day I saw an infant and I couldn’t help but laugh at him. He was sleeping in one of those bulky baby carriers that parents lug around, atop a mound of pillows and cushions. He was out so cold that he didn’t even notice his older sibling toss away her sippy cup, which bounced off the top of the shade he was sleeping soundly under. And still, when his mom finished with lunch, and she hefted him off the floor and swung his carrier around to leave, he never woke. The only way I could tell he was, in fact, still alive was that his head moved ever so slightly back and forth; left and right, left and then right. To me, he looked like some animatronic creature, like the fake babies sometimes used in scenes of Grey’s Anatomy or the dinosaurs in theme parks. And I laughed at him.

I laughed because he seemed so foreign to me. This tiny robotic-looking being, sleeping a slumber that must have been so perfectly peaceful and completely oblivious to the world outside his little carrier.

And I laughed because he resembled something like a little baby burrito. Blue blankets the tortillas encasing him and his tiny monogrammed wool cap the garnish at the end. He was bundled up so tightly in his warm little blanket that he looked like he might at any minute implode. Yet, he remained entirely tranquil.

After I had giggled at this infant stranger, I considered the reasons we humans swaddle our newborns. Of course, current medical beliefs suggest swaddling can help a baby to sleep and can even decrease the chance of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Wrapping infants so tightly and confining their movement gives them some sort of sense of protection and comfort. Even enough to keep them from dying. It most likely feels similar to the months they spent in their mother’s womb. And so, the little baby slept as he was toted from the deli out into the cold parking lot.

It wasn’t for a couple of days that I thought about that little baby burrito again. This morning, actually. I was thinking about how we adults sometimes long to be swaddled. And not only physically. Sure, sometimes it just feels nice to wrap yourself up in your favorite blanket and just fall over on the couch. Or a warm towel straight from the dryer — honestly, who can deny that? But this morning I was thinking about a different kind of swaddling. Like the kind that you allow to happen to you when you’re going into a relationship.

Maybe it starts with just the brush of a hand. Or maybe with a look. And some part of your insides to get all warm with excitement. It feels so thrilling, and you don’t want that new energy to leave, so you wrap it up a little. Then a few days later, you see those eyes again. The warm place jumps, ignites a little more of its surroundings. And you end up holding hands with those eyes. Now you’ve got these gloves that you don’t want to take off; cozy little reminders wrapped around your fingers. Suddenly you remember how cold your hands must have been before you had gloves. Now you can sense how cold the rest of your body is. You lock eyes and you hold hands and you feed the glow of the heat inside. You push it to warm the rest of you. Soon enough, you find yourself in a relationship. The warmth is with you even when you can’t see those eyes and when those hands aren’t brushing your hair back. You realize you have completely swaddled yourself with the fabric of this other person. The colors of their threads are now intertwining into yours, and you can’t tell which patterns are theirs and which are yours. And it feels fantastic. Comforted and cuddled and sheltered and secure. So much so that you don’t even notice sippy cups raining from the sky. And even if you don’t sleep next to each other, you still must be sleeping better than you did before the patterns. And surely each day was never so constantly cozy before this wool cap kept your head so warm…

And then, the probable happens. Your relationship ends. For whatever reasons. The patterns and the fabric and the warmth that you had allowed to encase your very being are ripped away. You’re suddenly very cold and exposed in the cold parking lot. The lack of continual contact leaves you deserted. You notice your arms can move about unrestricted, and the feeling is terrifying. Your fingers are freezing and you think they’re turning blue. And the easiest thing to do is wish for the return of your swaddling. It’s quick, it’s safe, it’s familiar. And you’re feeling so alone.

And that is why so many people fall back into relationships they probably know they should end. People will bicker and fight for months just to keep away from that unknowable cold. They will stay in relationships that have long been lukewarm at best. Because venturing away from our swaddling makes us anxious — it’s only natural.

Yes, sometimes breakups are only temporary. But I am writing this for people who shouldn’t go back to a relationship just because they’re lonely. Try to remember back before your head was covered by that woolen cap. Was it really that cold? Or have you, like so many others, built up some irrational fear? Challenge yourself to test the fresh air. You just might find it invigorating. Take a big breath and have some hope. Be excited by the anticipation of an eventual new warmth. It will come.