Gen-Z Is Opting Into The ‘90s Rubber Band Dating Theory—and I’m Kind of Here For It?

On Monday, he kissed her forehead with a “love ya” before work. On Tuesday, he sent a “morning pretty” text before the ding of her espresso machine went off. On Wednesday, they split a bottle of Sancerre at their favorite spot, and on the walk back to her apartment, he held her hand like he always did. But by Friday, something had shifted. His texts were slower, his enthusiasm muted. When she asked about his weekend plans, she was met with a vague, “Not sure yet, keep you posted.”

At first, she brushed it off. He was busy. Tired. Work had been hell lately. But by Sunday afternoon, panic settled in. Had she done something wrong? Shown a piece of herself he didn’t like? She stared at her phone, willing it to light up with his name—the growing silence was starting to become an answer itself. Cue: the devil and the angel on her shoulders. The rational part of her brain reassures her, we're 11 months in. Nothing happened. We’re sturdy. But the devil—the part of her that’s spent years decoding male behavior like a forensic psychologist—screams: This is how it ends.

Little does she know that, across town, the thought of 'ending things' hasn't crossed his mind. He’s not reevaluating his feelings or falling out of love or crafting a slow-burn breakup strategy. In fact, if you asked him, he’d tell you everything was fine. Great, even. He just wanted some space—some air, some quiet, some time to exist in his own world. It wasn’t a crisis of faith, nor was it a reflection of his feelings for her. It was just a moment of respite he could use to recharge. 

But again, she has no idea he’s treating this weekend like a mental retreat at Canyon Ranch. All she knows is the tightening in her chest, the sting of uncertainty in her stomach and the spiral of worst-case scenarios playing out in her head. 

This is what the Rubber Band Theory looks like in practice.

Coined by relationship counselor John Gray in his 1992 book, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, the Rubber Band Theory posits that men experience intimacy like a rubber band: they get close, then instinctively pull away before snapping back with a revived sense of connection. Per Gray, this isn’t a choice or a reaction to anything their partner has done—it’s simply the natural cycle of male behavior. “This cycle involves getting close, pulling away and then getting close again,” he explains. Not because they’ve lost interest, but because, “when a man loves a woman, periodically he needs to pull away before he can get closer.”

Women, on the other hand, instinctively do the opposite. When a man pulls away, her natural cycle is to assume something’s wrong—panic—and try to close the gap. Yet, according to Gray, this only prolongs the distance. “If a woman insists on continuous intimacy or ‘runs after’ her partner, then he will almost always [pull away harder]... he'll never get a chance to feel his own longing for love.” In other words, the more women push, the more men retreat. The best thing she can do is allow the rubber band to stretch and trust that, when it snaps back, it will strengthen their connection. (More on that below.)

This theory argues that pulling away isn’t about losing interest—it’s about self-preservation. So, let's imagine you're holding a rubber band between both hands. When a man pulls away, he’s stretching that band—not to detach, but to reset. As Gray explains, “Men instinctively alternate between needing intimacy and autonomy… they begin to feel a need for independence after they fulfill their threshold for intimacy.” Unlike women—who deepen connection through communication—men lose themselves in closeness. They absorb their partner’s emotions and expectations until their sense of self starts to erode. Pulling away, however, offers men the space to reestablish boundaries, reclaim their sense of self and—ironically—remember why they wanted intimacy in the first place.

But of course, women interpret this as a personal attack. “She assumes something is wrong and feels compelled to close the gap.” And who could blame us? One day, he’s talking about weekend plans; the next, he’s answering texts like a hostage negotiator. But Gray claims that men need the contrast of distance to a snap-back to their initial attraction. The band stretches, then relaxes—and if it stays relaxed too long, it loses its resilience. Same with emotional connection: too much uninterrupted closeness, and he stops feeling the pull. But when he stretches this band to its full extent? “He returns with a lot of power and spring.” The space isn’t a threat to him—it’s the very thing that forces him to come back stronger.

If you’ve followed any of my writing, you’ll know I have an affinity for applying financial strategies to dating (read: Soonicorn). So, you can imagine my excitement when I discovered “Rubber Band Trading” is an actual thing.

The premise is simple: when a stock’s price stretches too far in one direction—either surging too high or plummeting too low—it eventually self-corrects, snapping back toward its average. And when a major dip happens, seasoned traders don’t panic. They don’t scramble to “fix” the movement. Instead, they wait. They trust the market’s natural rhythm because if experience has taught them anything, it’s that overreacting only leads to bigger losses.

The advice in this book is no different. When someone pulls away, the worst thing you can do is chase. It doesn’t just disrupt the natural cycle—it positions you as the desperate investor buying at the peak, right before the crash. “The worst thing a woman can do is to try to stop him from pulling away—this disrupts the process and prevents him from snapping back,” says Gray. So, instead, you want to adopt the mindset of a seasoned trader. Let the market (your relationship) correct itself. Trust that if they’re going to snap back, they’ll do it on their own. And if they don’t? Consider it a stock that was never worth the investment to begin with.

At its core, Rubber Band Theory argues that pulling away isn’t a warning sign—it’s a necessary component of a natural cycle. It says that, biologically, men are primed to oscillate between intimacy and independence, stretching back before snapping forward again. And for women, the author contends, the worst thing you can do is chase. To try to force closeness when what’s needed is space. And while I don’t disagree with this '90s-era premise, I also think it’s somewhat dated.

On one hand, when you trust someone to show up for you, you begin to rely on them. That’s part of building intimacy—the slow release of hyper-independence, the stretching of your personal bubble to make room for someone else. So in that sense, I think this theory holds water. It reminds us that, even within the safety of a relationship, we still have agency. That it’s healthy to recalibrate, to nurture ourselves, to make sure we’re not outsourcing our entire sense of security to someone else. Plus, in my opinion, maintaining a level of autonomy isn’t just healthy—it’s necessary for a relationship to thrive. That’s the ingredient that allows both partners to show up as their best selves.

Still, however, what’s not normal is one person taking advantage—using “I need space” like a get-out-of-jail-free card—while the other person suffers in silence. My biggest critique of this theory isn’t about taking time apart; it’s about the absence of communication. Is it conducive to expect your partner to soothe every pang of anxiety you feel? Negative. That’s what therapy is for. But if you can’t advocate for yourself—if you can’t come together to find a rhythm that works for *both* of you—you’re not actually showing up for the relationship. Swallowing down resentment only breeds contempt, and contempt is the number one predictor of divorce with 93.6 percent accuracy. 

So in short, I think Rubber Band Theory is helpful—but only when it’s not used as a crutch. Because small, unspoken discomforts can eventually calcify into resentment. And once that becomes the norm, no amount of “snapping back” can fix things.