Years of software development had taught me the value of precisely defined requirements. And it worked. Within a few days, I met an awesome geek who was capable of making me look sentimental. After weeks of relationship testing, we agreed to move forward. A year later we were married.

Our relationship progressed happily and smoothly. From the beginning, we had some simple rules that prevented common household conflicts. For example, when it comes to doing chores (and most other things), we value efficiency over equality. It is not about whether we are splitting tasks 50–50, but more about how quickly and effectively we can get things done. If that means I carry out most or all of the workload, I’m OK with that, knowing that he is better than me at other things, and he does them willingly. We agreed to treat the relationship like one functioning unit, with each part compensating for the other’s weaknesses.

Needless to say, I was not prepared for a conflict to emerge from an inane argument. On a Saturday morning, coffee in hand, I turned on HBO. All week, I’d been waiting to watch Montage of Heck, a documentary about Kurt Cobain. I have been a huge Nirvana fan since I was a teenager. I set the volume to a level that’s needed to enjoy grunge music and sat down. I was so engrossed that I didn’t notice my husband until he was directly in my line of sight.

“What is this?” he asked, looking rather confused.

I paused the show and explained my fervor for alternative rock. To my surprise, that conversation did not end there. He kept asking more questions and offered unsolicited suggestions.

“You should watch TED talks. They are more useful,” came one of his proposals; this was followed by recommendations for podcasts, books, and even programming languages that I could be mastering instead.

“They are not comparable. I’m not looking to kill time. I deliberately want to watch this,” I retorted. As a compromise, I offered to lower the volume. But he remained perplexed by the music’s appeal to me. The back-and forth intensified, patience dwindled, giving way to undiluted frustration. We started to talk past each other.

“Why are we talking like this?” he asked.

Dealing with volatile emotions has never been our strength. “Let’s use the whiteboard,” I suggested, and he agreed. Most people have paintings in their living rooms, but we favor a huge whiteboard that serves a more practical purpose.

Software developers sometimes use a technique called sequence diagram to illustrate communication flows. With a mug of now-cold coffee in one hand and a blue marker in the other, I delved in. I drew a diagram of events and interactions that had turned a mundane communication into an emotional altercation. I used a red marker to highlight areas where our conversation had escalated.

He stood back quietly and observed, interrupting only to ask clarifying questions. Thanks to whiteboarding, instead of using the energy against each other, we were now using it to solve a common problem, and the tension began to dissipate. When I was finished, he took his turn.

We realized that neither of us had any intention of starting an argument or had entered the conversation in an upset state, and most importantly, there was no actual disagreement between us. We traced the cause of the argument to a series of misunderstandings—incorrect assumptions about the other person or messages that were received and interpreted differently than the speaker had intended.

Nearly two hours later the whiteboard was full, not just with the sequence diagram but two overlapping bell-curve-like charts, which demonstrated how our emotional states generally got triggered, escalated, peaked, and then receded. Since the recent contention was just one data point, we used previous experiences, including those with our exes, to make the charts more accurate and reliable. He also came up with a set of formulas that linked variables of behaviors and emotional states and wrote a simple simulation that showed at what point emotions overwhelm rational thinking and it becomes much more difficult to return to a normal state. We called this the inflection point.

At the end of it, we agreed on some lessons learned and cues to watch for in the future. We took note of the triggers and differences in communication styles that are likely to inadvertently cause a negative emotional response, so that we can try to avoid them. If all else fails, we conceded, we would at the very least use the whiteboard to resolve future misunderstandings before they escalated into verbal brawls.

“Should we go have some sushi?” he asked. It was almost lunchtime. “Right after I finish watching the documentary,” I said, and he smiled agreeably.

Several months later we were about to argue. “Remember the chart?” I asked. “Right now I’m reaching the inflection point.” After a look of surprise, he said, “Oh? I had no idea. Thank you for letting me know.” Crisis averted. And we didn’t even need the whiteboard this time.