Look, I’ve been doing this relationship counseling thing for about fifteen years now—fifteen years of sitting across from couples who are absolutely convinced they’ve found “the one.” They come to my office practically glowing. They’ve got their compatibility test results printed out, they’ve made those joint Spotify playlists, and they want me to know they never fight. Finances? Nailed it. Future in-laws? Best friends already.
Honestly? That’s usually when I start to worry.
Because right here’s what tends to show up: six months into the marriage, the wheels just… Fall off. And it is not often approximately the big stuff—no infidelity, no primary betrayals. It’s the mundane stuff. A flat tire on the way to a wedding. An overlooked connection at O’Hare. An inn reservation that mysteriously vanished into thin air.
Back in 2012, I started calling this phenomenon something in my practice: The 72-Hour Chaos Rule.
The idea is pretty straightforward. You probably shouldn’t marry someone until you’ve been through a stretch of genuine, uncontrollable chaos together. The kind where you lose your luggage in a foreign country and have to figure out how to survive the next three days without wanting to strangle each other.
I’ve spent thousands of hours in this field, plus my own fair share of global misadventures, and I’m convinced this “stress test” tells you more about a potential spouse than any personality quiz ever could.
The Illusion of the Perfect Weekend
Think about how dating actually works. It’s curated. Produced. You meet for carefully chosen drinks, you go to dinner at a restaurant someone researched, you buy concert tickets weeks in advance. These are what I call “excessive-stimulus, low-strain” environments. You’re both for your pleasant conduct—showered, great denims, and subjects of communication queued up like a setlist.
But that’s no longer real life, is it?
Real lifestyles are stickier. It’s the moment you are strolling back to the rental car and understand your wallet’s nevertheless at the eating place table. It’s the three AM be-careful call from a stomach worm when there’s only one bathroom. You cannot curate your manner out of that.
I consider this couple—permit’s name them Tom and Sarah. On paper, they were ridiculous. Both cherished trekking, equally difficult-to-understand indie film flavor, and whirlwind romance that might make a tremendous Netflix pilot. They confirmed premarital counseling six months out, and once I asked about their largest fight, they checked each other out and shrugged. “Didn’t have any,” they stated.
Red flag. Big one.
So I pushed a little. Asked them to tell me about a time something actually went wrong. They mentioned their first international trip together, to Portugal. Landed in Lisbon, excited, and… no Airbnb host. Raining. Phones useless. Three hours stranded on a cobblestone street with heavy bags.
I leaned in. “How’d that go?”
Sarah’s whole face changed. “Tom just… shut down. Sat at the decrease scrolling his telephone, trying to get a signal. I began knocking on doorways, looking to figure something out, and he simply sat there.”
Tom jumped in: “I was trying to solve the problem! There was nothing to do until I got a signal. Sarah was just panicking and making noise.”
See what happened there? They weren’t describing a minor inconvenience. They were describing a total breakdown in how they handle pressure together. They aced the dinner date test. The lost luggage test? Not so much.
The Psychology of the Suitcase
So why does losing your luggage hit such a nerve? It’s about control—or rather, losing it completely.
When those bags go missing, you lose:
Your Resources: Clean clothes, medication, phone chargers.
Your Plan: That beautiful itinerary you spent months crafting? Out the window.
Your Comfort Zone: You’re sticky, tired, sporting the equal socks from the plane, and there may be no end in sight.
Psychologists occasionally call this a “liminal stressor.” Not life-threatening like an automobile crash, however continual. Irritating. The form of element that is going on for hours, occasionally days. And that’s exactly why it reveals who someone really is.
I’ve been to maybe 50-plus countries studying how couples handle this stuff. Watched people melt down in the security line at JFK. Watched different humans—same airport, identical chaos—in some way pull collectively after you had pickpocketed in Barcelona.
When the luggage disappears, humans tend to fall into certainly one of three camps:
The Problem-Solver: Accepts the situation, begins identifying subsequent steps.
The Victim: Blames everything—the airline, the universe, their partner.
The Blamer: Turns on you specifically. “You’re the one who insisted on checking the bag!”
Here’s the thing I tell clients: if your partner defaults to Blamer or Victim during a 72-hour chaos window, that’s who they’re going to be at 2 AM with a screaming baby or when an unexpected tax bill shows up.
The Four Personality Types Revealed by Chaos
Over the years, I’ve noticed four distinct types emerge when things go sideways. Worth knowing which one you’re dealing with before you’re standing at a baggage claim that’s spinning empty.
1. The Engineer (Fix-It Mode)
The Engineer spots trouble and right now starts building a ladder. On the telephone with the airline, finding the nearest mall, and rebooking motels. On the surface? Great. The shadow aspect, though, is emotional blindness. They’re so targeted on solving the bags, they might not notice you are freezing and could absolutely use a hug. If you are someone who wishes for that emotional connection, marrying a pure Engineer can feel rather lonely.
2. The Nurturer (Emotional Mode)
The Nurturer couldn’t care less about the luggage—they care about you. Jacket over your shoulders, reassurance that it’ll be okay. Wonderful for your mental state. The shadow side? Passivity. If your plane’s about to leave and the Nurturer is just rubbing your back, you might miss the flight because nobody’s actually running to the gate.
3. The Captain (Directive Mode)
The Captain takes charge. Starts giving orders. “You talk to the gate agent, I’ll call the hotel, meet back here in ten.” In a crisis, invaluable. The shadow side shows up under sustained stress—past the 24-hour mark, the Captain can turn into a dictator. Your opinion? Not really part of the equation anymore.
4. The Ghost (Shutdown Mode)
The Ghost is probably the most difficult for long-term stability. When chaos hits, they check out. Dissociate. Headphones in, staring into space. For some, it’s a genuine trauma response. For others, it’s a passive-aggressive way of saying “this is your problem now.” Marry a Ghost, and you might find yourself carrying the mental load of the relationship forever.
How to Conduct Your Own “72-Hour Chaos” Test
You don’t actually need to lose your luggage to test this. But you do need to create some pressure. A five-star resort vacation doesn’t count—that’s the opposite of a test. You need friction.
Here are three exercises I often suggest to clients before they take the plunge:
1. The Intentional Misadventure
Plan a trip designed to go wrong. Don’t book hotels in advance. Take a bus to some town you’ve never heard of. Arrive late. Use only cash. Limit phone data. See what happens when you’re tired, hungry, and technically homeless for a few hours. Do you bond over the absurdity? Or fracture under the uncertainty?
2. The DIY Home Disaster
You don’t need to travel for this. Turn off the circuit breaker for 24 hours—no lights, no internet, no microwave. Or try a “job loss” weekend: cancel all plans, live on a strict $20 budget. These domestic pressures mimic the low-blood-sugar arguments that apparently ruin a surprising number of marriages.
3. The Physical Challenge
Sign up for something bodily disturbing that neither of you is sincerely organized for. A half-marathon, a Tough Mudder, and an extended hiking path. When your frame’s exhausted, the ego has a tendency to vanish. You see the raw person. Do they encourage you when you’re struggling? Complain? Quit?
The Red Flags vs. The Green Flags
I’ve put together a kind of checklist over the years for couples who’ve been through their “72 hours.” Sit down after a stressful experience and ask yourselves honestly:
Red Flags (Maybe Proceed with Caution):
They blamed you for the weather. Or the airline. Or the traffic.
They refused to adapt, insisting on sticking to a plan that was clearly broken.
They stopped speaking to you for hours.
They spent money irrationally just to fix the anxiety.
They made decisions without asking what you thought.
Green Flags (Probably Marriage Material):
They made you laugh when things were genuinely terrible.
They shared their remaining snack, water, or cellphone battery with out you asking.
They stated, “I don’t know what to do; however, we’re going to figure it out together.”
They took responsibility for his or her component in the mess.
They still desired to be close to you—hand-keeping, a hug—regardless of the strain.
Why “Good Times” Compatibility is a Trap
I inform customers of something that would sound cynical, but I virtually agree with: a marriage is a celebration of a vacation. A marriage is surviving the commute home.
You can have a wonderful time with almost anyone in Hawaii. Sun’s out, drinks are flowing, the sex is great. That’s chemical. That’s easy. That’s not the test.
The test is the commute home. The midnight airport delay. The lost luggage claim. Realizing the rental car company double-charged your card, and now your account is overdrawn.
In fifteen years, I’ve never had a couple sit across from me and say, “We got divorced because we didn’t have enough fun on vacation.” They come because they could not live on the Tuesday nights. The 72-Hour Chaos Rule is, in reality, just a condensed, high-octane model of a Tuesday night time.
Conclusion: The Suitcase is a Mirror
Here’s the thing about pressure—it tends to reflect. Your associate under stress is a reflection of their upbringing, their coping mechanisms, and their central values. The seventy two-Hour Chaos Rule isn’t approximately finding a person who handles stress flawlessly. Nobody does. It’s approximately finding a person whose strain-handling fashion does not conflict with yours in methods with a purpose to eventually wear you both down.
I’ve seen Engineers marry Nurturers and build something impressive. I’ve seen Captains marry other Captains and, well, burn the house down. The point isn’t to change your partner’s response. It’s good to see it clearly before you sign anything.
So maybe, before you spend thousands on a venue and a dress, spend a weekend getting lost. Miss a flight on purpose. Book the wrong hotel. Lose the luggage.
Because if you find yourself stranded somewhere with nothing but the clothes you’re wearing, and your partner looks at you and says, “Well, this is an adventure,”—you haven’t just found a travel companion. You’ve probably found a spouse.
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