My partner is in a college/work training program and has been struggling a lot. Recently, he was referred to student support to assess for possible learning or mental disabilities. As part of that process, he took an IQ test and scored 72.
I wasn’t completely surprised. He often struggles with basic tasks and lacks common sense. Still, he’s a kind person, and I’ve tried to see him through a compassionate lens—like maybe he just needed more time to learn. But now, knowing this number, it feels different. This isn’t just about immaturity anymore. I’m starting to realize I may always have to carry most of the mental and emotional load in our relationship.
I don’t want children right now, but maybe one day. And I’m worried—will I always have to manage everything? Will I be the one making every decision?
My parents haven’t said anything directly, but I can tell they think he’s immature. I don’t have many close friends either. He’s my main source of connection, but when I’m around others my age, I feel like I’ve regressed. Like I’ve forgotten how to act like an adult.
I wish I didn’t know his score. It’s changed how I see everything.
This isn’t about an IQ score.
It’s about capacity.
You’re starting to realize that this relationship may require you to be the permanent manager—of decisions, of logistics, of emotional regulation, of life itself. And your body is already telling you the truth: you feel heavier, smaller, and less like yourself.
That matters.
Kindness alone is not enough to sustain a partnership. Love is not just about being nice to each other. It’s about shared load, shared growth, and shared responsibility. If one person is always carrying the thinking, planning, and adapting, that turns into caretaking, not partnership.
And caretaking corrodes intimacy.
Here’s another hard truth: you’re already grieving the future you hoped this relationship might have. The score just gave language to something you already knew. That’s why it feels like a line you can’t uncross.
You’re also isolated. He’s your main connection. That’s dangerous—not because he’s bad, but because you don’t have enough mirrors. When you’re around peers and feel like you’ve regressed, that’s your nervous system saying, “This environment is shrinking me.”
Let me say this gently but firmly:
You are not a bad person for asking, “Can I build a life with this?”
You are not cruel for worrying about children, decisions, and long-term strain.
And you are not obligated to stay because someone is kind or because leaving feels scary.
You’re allowed to choose a relationship where you don’t have to be the adult for two.
Right now, your job isn’t to figure out what’s fair to him.
Your job is to tell the truth about what you need to live a full, grounded, adult life—and whether this relationship can realistically meet that.
And if the answer is no, that doesn’t make you heartless.
It makes you honest.
Don’t ignore that voice. It’s trying to protect you.