Blog Full - Maurice Leavitt | Personal Essays, Travel Writing & Reflections

24 Aug 2025

The Truth-Teller, the Disturber, and the Black Sheep

by Maurice | posted in: Compassionate Conversation, Conflict Resolution, Retirement, Speaking Your Truth, Thailand, Truth | 2

How silence shapes families, workplaces, and cultures — and those who dare to break it.

Every human group — families, workplaces, communities, even entire cultures — develops its own agreements, spoken and unspoken, about what can be said and what must be left unsaid. Some of those agreements are written into policy or passed down through cultural norms and rituals, but many are silent, enforced only by the fear of what happens someone dares to break them.

These silences shape the families we grow up in, the workplaces we adapt to, and the cultures we move within. Often, we don’t notice any of this happening –until suddenly, we do.

The Roles We Inherit

It is within these environments that our roles emerge. There will always be the caretakers, the over-achievers, the peacekeepers. And often, there is the truth-teller – sometimes called the disturber, more often branded the black sheep. The one who feels the weight of oppressive silence pressing down until words rise up against it. The one who names what others would rather keep hidden, whether in a living room, a boardroom, or a culture that values harmony over honesty.

I know this role well. It wasn’t one I chose for myself, but one I seemed to fall into again and again. I have vivid memories of starting conversations about difficult things as early as 6 years old. At that age, I didn’t have any language for it – I just felt the pressure of building silence and I couldn’t hold it.

What I did learn, even back then, was the cost. Speaking carried risk. Sometimes it meant facing someone’s anger or sadness and sometimes being dismissed as “too much”.

“Learning when to tell the truth and when to hold it has been a lifelong practice — not because I doubt the truth itself, but because I’ve had to weigh when the relationship could bear it.”

Seeing What Others Avoid

The role of a truth-teller is carried out by those who see clearly in places where others prefer the illusion of harmony. Families guard their appearance of peace, workplaces their measures of productivity and profit, and nations their performance of stability. Cracks in these images can feel like threats to the fragile sense of belonging everyone depends on, however illusory it may be. When the truth teller names those cracks, they are branded disruptive, disloyal, or ungrateful.

I learned this first in the atmosphere of my family home. Frustration with a situation was expressed as anger. Silence met that anger just as often, and avoidance carried its own cost – solving nothing, only postponing what would eventually return. One parent would provoke, escalating the situation, while the other would deny and retreat, until the pressure built into eruption — but never a resolution. The cycle repeated itself again and again: provocation, withdrawal, blow-up, retreat.

As a child, I felt the cycle itself … and the tension of it surrounding me, even when nobody spoke. Others coped by running out of the room or forgetting altogether, hoping it would magically vanish if no one brought it up again. But for reasons I didn’t fully understand, my way was different. I remembered — and I spoke to the shadow of the elephant in the room.

I have memories of being terrified, yet still starting conversations about the things no one wanted to talk about. I didn’t know then that I was playing the role of the truth-teller, or what others would later call the black sheep. I only knew that something was not right and the silence around the problem was suffocating.

And yet, I also learned the cost. Telling the truth often drew an angry reaction or could send someone into a heavy silence that slipped into sadness. Sometimes the conflict from truth telling ended in physical distancing, rejection or outright abandonment. It set me apart from the rest of the family, who chose silence over confrontation. I was disrupting the fragile harmony that the silence was supposed to protecting.

Still, those early experiences became the foundation for how I would later understand human connection and conflict when truth is buried. I became aware of the price of avoidance, and I was unwilling to pretend that silence heals what it is trying to hide.

Sometimes families create triangles. One person avoids, another confronts, and the parent in the middle feels indispensable. Instead of healing rifts, the pattern keeps them alive — because the person in the middle needs to be needed. What’s lost is the clean connection between siblings, or between any two people who might otherwise meet each other honestly. It’s heartbreaking, because you long for that connection — but the system keeps pulling you apart.

Beyond the Family

What begins in families rarely stays contained there. The same patterns of silence and avoidance repeat themselves in larger systems. Workplaces, communities, and even entire cultures develop their own ways of rewarding conformity while shaming or punishing disruption. All of them have their truth-tellers … tolerated at best, rarely welcomed, half-exiled, yet quietly necessary.

I experienced this firsthand during my years in education. At one point, the college president hired a department head for Culinary Arts who had no background in the field. At the same time, the curriculum we were teaching from was more than twenty years old, hopelessly behind a profession that had already reinvented itself many times over. Everyone knew it, but few said anything. Silence felt safer.

I was beside myself. Was I the only one seeing this? Why wasn’t anyone from my industry or department speaking up? Directly questioning the president of the college would mean stepping out of line, drawing the label of being “difficult” or “not a team player” or worse, insubordinate. And yet, to remain silent would hold its own kind of betrayal — to the students who trusted us, to the profession I had given my life to, and to my own integrity.

I was told to “give it some time”, year after year.

That same tension showed up on a larger scale here in Thailand. Here, saving face is everywhere— not simply politeness; it’s a cultural protocol that avoids public discomfort and preserves social harmony. It can feel like grace—protecting dignity in moments of slip. But when it becomes a mask that protects image over truth, what grows in the shadows can turn toxic. To speak directly, especially to someone “above” you in age or rank, can be seen as disrespectful, even dishonorable.

That delicate tightrope—between grace and suppression, compassion and control—is where many conversations fail to land. Truth becomes the casualty.

The Paradox

To tell the truth is both gift and exile. Some people thank me for it — I appreciate you because you are courageous to tell the truth and you’re not afraid of hurting someone’s feelings. Others ask why I would cause such unnecessary disruption — Why bring conflict onto yourself by speaking up? The truth-teller never gets to choose how their role will be received.

There is clarity, relief, and a kind of integrity in no longer feeling the need to pretend. But it also carries isolation and loneliness. The truth-teller knows that relationships without reciprocity are not sustainable. They learn to keep the door cracked — enough to let love through if it comes honestly, but not wide open to harm. To speak what others avoid often means risking belonging — but preserving courage and integrity.

“Belonging built on silence is not belonging at all.”

The paradox is this: the truth-teller is not seeking approval for their actions. Their role is not to comfort but to disrupt unhealthy patterns. They are the ones who remind us that belonging built on silence is not belonging at all. Without truth-tellers, our illusions harden into a make-believe reality, and the denial and avoidance becomes the norm. With them, there is at least the possibility of change — though rarely without friction.

And maybe that is the deeper gift. Not to destroy, but to refuse false harmony. Not to wound, but to keep alive the possibility that relationships — families, communities, even whole societies — might grow strong enough to hold the truth.

For me, the role has always been both blessing and curse. It has set me apart, sometimes painfully so, yet it has also given me clarity and integrity. I have come to accept and appreciate that tension — the strange necessity of the truth-teller , and the half-exile of the black sheep.

15 Aug 2025

Vocation: Presence Over Performance … Service Over Self

by Maurice | posted in: Adventure | 0

At first, I thought “vocation” meant chasing a dream.

Cooking was the vocation I had a fire for—I had the taste, the instincts, the skill, and the determination. I wanted to make food that moved people. And for a long time, I carried the titles I thought I was supposed to have in my life, and was doing the thing I believed I was meant to be doing.

Looking back, I was in service to other people’s pleasure. And I still believe there’s something sacred in that. Feeding someone well. Providing pleasure to a partner. Offering yourself for another’s delight—it’s intimate, human, and even holy. But when you do it while abandoning yourself, it stops being generous. It becomes a performance. Maybe even a transaction. Like touching someone’s body, making love … just going through the motions. Giving, but with a closed fist.

After ten years in professional kitchens, working under celebrity chefs, opening restaurants, pushing for perfection—I hit a wall. The competition, repetition, the egos battling, became unbearable. I once thrived on the stress, the culture and the pressure to keep producing. But, I was burning out. The very thing that once gave me pride and identity had become a source of suffering.

In the kitchen, discipline wasn’t optional. You showed up … worked hard … get shit done. And that kind of rigor suited me. A disciplined work ethic came naturally. But I started to realize that pulling off perfect service meant nothing if I was disconnected from my own center. Success wasn’t just about performance—it was about how I related to myself.

That was the harder work: resisting my own indifference, showing up without having to prove anything to anyone, learning to notice when my own self-indulgence or emotional laziness was creeping in. My real growth wasn’t in the technical or professional—it was in my personal habits, in developing the kind of self-respect that leads to peace of mind.

The beginnings of figuring out what it means to live a good life.

I was struggling with what to do next. Unemployed, going from one small job to another. Then I saw a job listing in the newspaper. A local community college was looking for a culinary instructor. These jobs almost never opened up, especially not full-time, not with benefits. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I applied … luck was on my side … Got the job.

I didn’t set out to become a teacher. But the truth is, I was already doing the work. Training cooks, mentoring staff, modeling how to show up—not just for the food, but for life. Responsibility, presence, integrity. These weren’t lessons on the menu, but they were part of what I offered. And something about that began to feel true.

And maybe it took my suffering in the kitchen—the burnout, the deadening repetition, the disillusionment, my quiet collapse—to make space for that truth to surface. I tried ignoring it and looking away. Masking my suffering through alcohol and marijuana had stopped working. And in that clarity, a new path opened for me. Not one born from comfort or ambition, but from the recognition: my life no longer fit what I was doing.

The discovery of my vocation revealed itself quietly through that ache of exhaustive suffering … the kind that comes from performing, pleasing, and avoiding pain for too long. Eventually, the cost of abandoning myself became too high. So I started turning inward.

I began taking responsibility—for my reactions, my past, my choices, the stories I told myself. Not to achieve enlightenment or perfection, but to feel whole again. And I’ve come to believe that’s where real vocation begins: not with external validation, but with inner integration.

Getting the teaching job wasn’t the end of my growth, it was just the beginning. The vocation kept unfolding in me, and through the students I taught. Teaching culinary arts became the doorway, but my real work was about something more.

Sure, teaching the cooking techniques mattered because that’s what I was being paid to do. But what was really shaping us were the things no textbook could teach: how to deal with our mistakes, how to adapt when food didn’t get delivered, how to receive public critique, and most of all … how to respond to the unexpected and uncontrollable.

Those were the moments that revealed our character … both for teacher and student. The moments that taught us more than any academic lesson ever could.

Suffering: The Doorway to Clarity and Initiation

The deeper truth is this: it wasn’t the burnout or the disappointment in my jobs that changed me. It was what the discomfort revealed. Suffering has a way of burning through illusion if we let it. Revealing what we’d rather not see. It asks more of us than most people want to give. But if we’re willing to stay with it, suffering becomes the doorway to seeing things more clearly.

At the time, I was just trying to survive. But looking back, I can see that the life I was living wasn’t genuine. My anger and reactivity were self-protections. The suffering was showing me what wasn’t working anymore. Not just in my job, but in my way of being and seeing the world.

What became clear was how much of my energy had gone into managing my image: competent, reliable, and in control. A man society told me I was supposed to be. But underneath that facade was a mess of avoidance—emotional bypassing, substance use, perfectionism, and a low-grade diminishment of self-worth I had no idea how to name. The gap between how I looked from the outside and how I felt from the inside was widening. The light and darkness in me were no longer playing well together.

These realizations didn’t come quickly. What I’m describing now happened many years ago—but I remember the shift like it was yesterday. And as I build a new life in Thailand, I find myself revisiting this process again. Not in the same form, but with the same essential question: Am I still willing to live honestly—with myself, and with others?

There’s not enough talk about our inner duality—the ways we split ourselves.

The images of ourselves we show the world, and the one we carry in silence when the mind turns against us. The part that appears strong on the outside, and the part that’s quietly crumbling on the inside. But suffering doesn’t care about our polished performance. It strips us down until all that’s left is what’s real… and that, in the end, is rarely as harsh as the voice in our head would have us believe.

What I came to see was that I was learning how to live in alignment with myself. I had mastered output and control. But internally… peace of mind? Emotional honesty? The ability to hold pain without fleeing? How to ask for what I wanted? That was all still ahead of me.

As I began to slow down and feel my life more clearly, I started seeing the deeper ways I had been hiding—from myself, and from others. Not just in my professional life. But in love, family and sexuality. I could spot the avoidance in others because I was beginning to recognize it in myself. It was a harsh reality I needed to follow.

So many of us say we want love and connection. We want deep relationships, fulfilling sex and real intimacy. But we won’t speak our truth. We don’t ask for what we want. Staying vague, polite, emotionally distant. We use humor, caretaking, or silence to sidestep being vulnerable. And then we wonder why we feel so alone.

The more I sat with and faced the pain born from my own true feelings…. the more I saw how much of my life had been shaped by escaping. Avoiding the confrontation within myself. Ignoring my desires. Not acknowledging my grief. And I started to understand that suffering wasn’t just something to get through—it was the teacher that helped me stop hiding.

This was my real initiation. The beginning of a more genuine, undivided life. One where I could ask for what I wanted without apology. One where intimacy meant honesty—not just comfort.

And that realization—that suffering could open, rather than close—changed everything.

From Clarity to Vocation: The Call to Service

For me, this didn’t just happen in isolation or through journaling. Once I realized I was not living my best life, an authentic life—once I could no longer deny the disconnection between who I was and how I was living—I began to seek out the people and places that could hold that transformation.

I went to retreat centers, to ashrams. Sat meditating in silence for 10 hours a day. Joined men’s circles, where the masks we wear around masculinity were stripped bare. I did sexual healing work—not because it was trendy, but because I needed to face the places in me that had been distorted, hidden, or numbed. I wanted to understand what a healthy relationship looked like. What intimacy really was. I was ready to stop pretending.

These spaces weren’t comfortable, but they were real. They helped me confront what I had avoided and integrate parts of myself I had long denied. These people and places weren’t escapes from myself—they were containers where I could show up as my full self in all my suffering and perceived brokenness.

These experiences became initiations into a life I had only dreamed of living. And I walked into them willingly, because I knew that what I needed wasn’t another goal to chase, but a more honest relationship with myself.
The more I returned to myself, the more I stopped trying to accommodate, avoid conflict or perform according to someone else’s standards. And the more I could offer my unique self to others … not through unsolicited advice or ready-made answers, but through pure presence and undivided attention. A willingness to sit with others, to stay with what’s hard and not turn away. So the answers that live deep within each of us have the space to reveal themselves.

Once we demonstrate we can truly show up for ourselves, something shifts. We begin to show up for others—not because we want to be needed, but because we want everyone to find their own way back to themselves. To find their own peace, like we were able to find.

This kind of service doesn’t come because we feel guilty about our past. It doesn’t come because we want to avoid our own pain by tending to someone else’s. It isn’t about fixing others, or performing like the culture wants us to in order to earn our place in the world.

That, to me, is the mark of someone living their vocation: they carry a quiet integrity.

They’re not chasing identity or a title or a career. They’re simply becoming more aligned with their truest self … and from that place, they bring a willingness to be with others in their truth. Because they’ve finally stopped running from themselves.

And that’s what I believe real service is:
not an escape from the self,
but an offering that includes the self—
refined, scarred, softened, and awake.

The Quiet Labor

My heart gravitates to people who have taken responsibility for themselves… their emotions, behaviors, past mistakes … and who have done and continue to do the work necessary to become a more integrated human beings. One breakthrough at a time, over the course of a life. Because the learning doesn’t end … unless we return to behaviors that numb us from reality… or we die.

We evolve in layers, becoming more aligned with our unique self-nature. And then there is a moment, after the clarity, after the alignment. When you look around and realize—not everyone is coming with you.

Not because they are bad, or because they don’t suffer like you do. But because this path—of turning inward, taking responsibility, facing truth, and letting suffering shape you— asks more than most people are willing to give. And for good reason. It’s easier to go numb than to face reality. Most people don’t want to feel. They’d rather keep performing. They’d rather stay comfortable, keep up appearances, and avoid anything that might undo the life they carefully constructed.

The Offering We Make

But once you’ve stopped pretending—allowing life’s suffering to humble you—you stop needing to prove anything. There’s no more chasing approval or admiration. Only the quiet pull to live a genuine honest existence. And from that place, being useful to other’s becomes the priority. Not because you have anyone’s answers, but because you’re no longer trying to be someone you’re not.

People can feel your authenticity and that’s what makes you trustworthy. In my own life this began to take shape during my years as a teacher. I realized I wasn’t just passing on techniques—I was helping students navigate failure, pressure, discipline, and self-respect. I was teaching them what it meant to show up for themselves—not just for their work, or for their boss, but for their own lives.

That kind of service isn’t limited to the classroom. It can show up anywhere. In kitchens, offices, families and friendships.

The roles we play for each other begin to change. They become less about achievement or status, and more about something quieter: raising each other up, human to human, in every contact we make. That might mean reminding someone they’re not the worst thing they’ve done. It might mean seeing through their defensiveness to the part of themselves that still wants to grow.

It’s not about rescuing anyone from their pain or negative self-talk. It’s about believing in people—especially when they can’t believe in themselves. Not indulging the self-pity or blaming we may fall into, but helping each other remember that they’re still worthy of becoming who we’re meant to be.

Walking the Path of Service

And eventually, we begin to start living for something different.
Not for success or approval. Not for safety or self-image.
But, being of service to one another.
Not to become a savior or to fix the world’s pain.

The service I’m talking about isn’t self-sacrificing. It’s doesn’t require losing yourself or carrying the weight of others’ pain. Instead, it’s the quiet, humble kind of confidence that comes from knowing who you are. From living in alignment with the person you’ve come to know yourself to be. And from realizing that nothing—nothing—matters more than presence, honesty, and the capacity to walk alongside others in their own becoming.

That’s what suffering gives you, if you let it: not just personal insight, but a devotion to each other. A sense that presence—more than answers—is what matters. That the real work of this life isn’t to prove anything. It’s to show up. To make space. To accept life as it is.

And to offer yourself—not from a place of hierarchy, because none of us are above or below one another, but as someone unwilling to turn away from anyone’s suffering.

And no, not everyone will walk this path with you.
Many will continue to hide behind their own illusion of control, false positivity, bliss masks, or pain.
But once you’ve found that deeper place in yourself—the one beneath societal performance—you stop expecting others to accept you or to come with you.

You just keep walking. And when someone else reaches their own edge, you’re simply there beside them.

That, to me, is what it means to live a meaningful life… and to be of service.

2 Aug 2025

What’s Been Asking to Be Written Lately

by Maurice | posted in: Embrace Change, letters to self, Vulnerability, writing | 0

When I first decided to bring my writing out of my personal journaling and into the public blog back in 2012, I imagined sharing a few learnings and moments from my life experiences that helped me feel like a more complete, unbroken and kind human. I wove in some travel, retreats and workshops along the way.
Now my writing includes the markets of the world I walk through, the food I cook, and the quiet rhythms of creating a simple and slower life.

And that’s only part of it.

Lately, what’s been asking to be written isn’t just where I am—but what’s moving through me. And some of that has been uncomfortable for me to write, let alone click the “publish” button on.

Over the past few months, I’ve been writing about relational honesty, emotional intelligence, saving face, moral development, and the invisible dynamics that shape how we relate to ourselves and each other. I’ve also written about my family—my real experiences, my reflections, the truths I carry.

It’s personal. And I know it’s touched nerves.

Recently, I received an email from a former student of mine who was upset—accusing me of something from nearly ten years ago. I couldn’t even recall the situation they were describing. But their pain was real. I could feel it through their words. And while I don’t share their version of the story, I sat with it.

I’m also aware that some of what I’ve written about my family may have been hard for them to read—especially when I’ve made direct correlations to family dynamics, or mentioned people who are still living. The opposite is also true… they might not share my version of the story, or may be upset that I that I’ve chosen to write about it in a public space at all.

It reminded me that when you share your truth in the world, not everyone will agree with it, see it the same way, or appreciate it. Some may feel hurt. Some may feel confronted.

And still—I believe it’s worth writing.

I’m not here to provoke or expose. I’m here to try to understand. To stay in relationship with the parts of myself—and the world—that don’t fit easily into a postcard version of life. I don’t believe growth happens without discomfort. I don’t think believe connection happens without truth.

Lately, I’ve become a little self-conscious about what I’m putting out there. There’s a familiar discomfort returning—the same one I felt years ago when I was first trying to shape some raw thoughts into words. I catch myself checking if I’ve lost subscribers, even though I say I’m not writing to please anyone or build a following.

If you’ve felt a shift in my writing, you’re not wrong. This space has become more reflective. More layered. Less about travel. More about what gets stirred as I move through a new stage of life.

If you’re still here—quietly reading—I’m grateful. If something I’ve written has resonated, I’d love to know. Click here to send me an email. (If you hit reply to this email, it won’t go through.)

And if this no longer feels like the right fit, you can unsubscribe below. No guilt, no hard feelings. We all grow in different directions.

But I’ll be following what’s asking to be written.
Writing what feels true. Even when it’s messy.
—Maurice

31 Jul 2025

The Emotional Intelligence Behind Relational Honesty

by Maurice | posted in: Compassion, Loving Well, Relationship, spiritual practice, Vulnerability | 0

The Paradox of Truth Telling

There’s a pattern I’ve come to know—not just in others, but also in myself. In moments where honesty is asked for, but not truly welcomed. Especially when it begins to press on something tender, inconvenient, or unresolved.

People say they want honesty. That it matters. And they are right. Intimacy does requires truth. I’d agree. But the moment that truth touches discomfort, challenges our behavior, or stirs something raw and historical … suddenly honesty can feel like a threat. It’s met with retreat. Deflection. Silence. Or worse—anger and blame.

The conversation—the one that could have opened something real—breaks or shuts down.

And it doesn’t always shut down with hostility. More often, it’s gentle. Polite. A quiet redirection or a soft walking away from the conflict. But make no mistake: that too is a form of communication.

Behavior always speaks the unspeakable.

And under emotional pressure, it often says: I can’t handle this. Why are you making me uncomfortable by saying your truth? Please go back to making me feel at ease.

What becomes painfully clear is that many people want intimacy—but few are prepared for what it actually requires … the emotional risk, accountability, and the capacity to hold contradiction.
To demanding truthfulness without cruelty.
To offer compassion without avoidance.
Because intimacy isn’t built on shared tastes or easy laughter. It’s built in the fire of discomfort. In the willingness to stay, to feel, to not turn away.
It is, by nature, a demanding practice.

And that means something more difficult: to pause in our discomfort. To hold more than just our own narrow and subjective version of truth. To take responsibility for our feelings … and let others have theirs. Without that pause, even speaking a gentle truth can feel like an attack. Vulnerability gets treated like a threat.

This isn’t just personal—it’s cultural. And generational.

teeups — Use of conversational ‘tee-ups’ can obscure what you are trying to say, but also may signal that you are being insincere. ILLUSTRATION: Adam Doughty

In face-saving cultures, emotional discomfort is framed as failure. Conflict isn’t avoided because it’s harmful—it’s avoided because it’s impolite. Vulnerability is mistaken for confrontation. And so people protect harmony at the expense of truth. They preserve appearances at the cost of depth.

The result? What looks like connection is often just a performance.

When honesty isn’t met with presence—when it’s met with defensiveness, blame or silence—the message is clear: This relationship has limits. There are things we cannot say here.

And those unspeakable things don’t disappear. They fester. They come out sideways—in tone, in avoidance, in quiet punishment disguised as politeness.

This is where the closeness in our relationship and intimacy begins to die. Not in a grand rupture, but in an avoidance retreat. Not in cruelty, but in the silence.

Because a relationship without honesty isn’t connection. It’s a counterfeit closeness … a performance of intimacy where the rituals of closeness are there—but the recognition, the risk, the realness are missing.

Pretending everything is fine may look graceful in keeping the peace. But it can’t build trust, grow love, or hold a relationship together. Only presence can. And that takes staying.

The Comfort of Being ‘Fine’

Let’s be honest: not everyone wants to do the personal work that honest relationships require in order to develop emotional depth.

Many would rather keep things fine. No conflict. No fighting. Don’t feel too much. Avoid saying anything that might make things messy.

Some say they want honesty in their relationships. But only the kind that doesn’t disrupt anything. Anything deeper, anything that challenges our comfort zone or unsettles our routine, is quietly avoided.

This isn’t always conscious. In households where vulnerability was seen as weakness, and cultures that equate conflict with disrespect, emotional avoidance becomes the norm. You keep the mood light … say everything’s fine. You learn early that truth is dangerous—and silence is safer.

I came from a “fine” family myself. Everything was always, and had to be, fine. We didn’t talk about what hurt. I wasn’t taught how. I didn’t even have the vocabulary to name what was wrong. Because nobody really knew how to deal with truth—or with emotion.

The emotional tools I was taught were anger and avoidance, which eventually morphed into passive aggression. And if the silence lingered long enough, into lies and betrayal. All the other feelings that lived beneath the anger, grief, fear, longing… got swallowed.

That’s the quiet training ground for emotional avoidance.

I was taught early on that being agreeable is safer than being real. That silence mattered more than truth.

My problem was … I couldn’t do it. Even from a young age, something in me resisted. Something didn’t feel right. While other family members became experts at staying quiet. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. And I paid the price for that.

Tibetan teacher Chögyam Trungpa called this kind of behavior “idiot compassion.” Not true compassion—but a well-intentioned avoidance. A version of kindness that runs from conflict. The instinct to protect people from discomfort rather than walk through it with them.

Idiot compassion says… Don’t rock the boat or upset anyone. Don’t say what’s real if it might make someone uncomfortable.

But emotional safety built on avoidance isn’t intimacy—it’s self-protection in disguise.

When avoiding the truth, we stop being in relationship and start micro-managing it. We go through the motions. Say what’s expected. Keep the atmosphere calm, even if it means silencing the truth.

And to be fair, not everyone wants to go deeper. Some people are doing the best they can with the tools they have. But for people like me … who long for connection, that doesn’t require pretending — “fine” became unbearable.

Depth of connection requires us to cultivate a different kind of courage.
It asks us to face into our discomfort—not avoid it.

True compassion isn’t about making things easy.
It’s about staying honest—even when the truth is hard to hold.

Honesty Requires Practicing Emotional Intelligence Skills

So you want an honest relationship, huh? Craving realness. Depth, Intimacy. But are you actually prepared for what honesty requires?

Because wanting honesty is not the same as being able to practice it.

Honesty without emotional capacity is a setup for failure.

You can ask someone to be truthful—but if you’ve never learned how to sit with listening to someone’s painful perception of you or hold space for their hurt when some of it involves you, then honesty will feel like a threat. It won’t be seen as truth. It overwhelms the nervous system … because it gets registered as judgment, attack, or betrayal.

That’s the true practice of truth-telling.

Not just being brave enough to speak.
But being steady enough to receive.

This is the emotional gap … We say we want honesty, but we flinch when we see it coming. We say we value openness, but we shut down, deflect, or lash out when things feel too raw. And most of the time, it’s not because we’re bad people. It’s because we were never taught how to stay.

I wasn’t.

I was taught how to react. How to defend. How to rise up in anger and fight. But I wasn’t taught how to regulate my own nervous system. How to listen without needing to fix or protect myself. How to say: This is hard to hear—and I’m still here.

Most of us weren’t.

We inherited emotional blueprints that prioritized survival, not connection.
Families taught us how to keep things together—not how to fall apart and repair.
Schools taught us how to perform, not how to be present.
Culture taught us to keep the peace, not how to build it.

So now, we have adults who want intimacy, but only if it doesn’t cost them pride. Who want truth, but only if it doesn’t make them uncomfortable. We want to be known—but we don’t want to be exposed.

And that leaves us in a paradox: longing for honesty yet pushing it away the moment it makes us uncomfortable.

Until we build the emotional muscle to stay in those moments—of discomfort, of disagreement, of uncertainty—honesty will continue to feel dangerous. And real connection and intimacy will keep slipping through our fingers.

When Silence Starts to Speak

When truth can’t be spoken—or can’t be received—something begins to erode. And it starts to show in the relationship.

It’s subtle at first. You try to keep things light and on the surface. Avoiding the tough conversations. You know the people you have to walk on eggshells around. You start wordsmithing, editing yourself— even if it’s just a little. Not saying the thing you know will change the atmosphere in the room.

And it works—for a while. Things stay pleasant. Smooth. No one gets upset. But the relationship becomes more about avoiding rupture than building truth. More about managing each other than actually being with each other.

But over time, that cost adds up. What once felt like closeness starts to feel fake.
Connection becomes conditional—safe only when everything stays pleasant and undisturbed. So much energy goes into managing the appearance of connection, instead of actually building it.

It’s not that there’s no affection or care. It’s just that everything real has to fit inside the relationship’s emotional limits.

And eventually, people adapt.

They learn what parts of themselves are “welcome” and what parts have to be hidden. They can show up half-present. They get quieter. Numb. Resentful. And nobody notices … or are afraid to say they notice. Until a bomb goes off—because you can’t suppress what’s true forever.

This is what happens when emotional avoidance becomes the relational norm.

Trust thins. Resentment builds.
The unspoken thoughts inside our head becomes louder than the spoken word.
And the relationship, even if it technically “lasts,” starts to die from the inside.

This is the consequence.

The conflict isn’t the problem —it’s not knowing how to do conflict well.
It’s not about avoiding discomfort—it’s about learning how to stay grounded in discomfort.
And the issue isn’t honesty — it’s asking for honesty without knowing what to do once it arrives.

When we don’t do our personal work, our relationships become emotionally minimalistic.
We trade truth for peace. But it’s a peace that comes at the cost of relational vitality, depth, and trust.

The worst part?

It can all look fine from the outside.
Nobody’s yelling. Nobody’s walking out. Everyone is smiling.
But inside, everything meaningful has gone silent.

How To Hold The Truth

So what am I supposed to do with all of this?

I continue to learn. I continue to practice. Building the emotional muscles that I never knew I had and was never taught to use. Having humility towards myself when I believe I should have made more progress when I stumble and fall.

Because I don’t want relationships that are emotionally closed or conflict avoidant. I intentionally want to create relationships that are honest, connected and intimate. Built on the willingness to pause when it would be easier to lash out or react.

To stay when it would be easier to disappear. To listen without feeling the need to defend. To speak without the fear of hurting someone’s feelings … because the truth matters more than someone’s comfort.

This is slow work requiring great practice. Sometimes will be painful. Almost never graceful at first. But it’s the work that makes something real possible.

Practice …

… being honest and kind.
… saying, this is hard for me to hear—and I’m not going anywhere.
… receiving someone’s truth, even when it implicates us. Especially then.
… learn and practice how to stay regulated in the heat of discomfort—not by shutting down, but by staying soft and grounded inside ourselves.

Stop …

mistaking emotional control for emotional maturity.
calling avoidance “compassion.”
confusing “not fighting” with peace.

Real intimacy …

is forged in discomfort—not in the absence of it.
lives in the moments when people show up fully, even when it’s messy.
grows through repair. Through staying. Through practice.

So, the invitation (or reminder) is this:

Don’t perform connection—build it. Don’t just ask for honesty—prepare for it. Don’t cling to what’s easy—choose what’s real.

And if you don’t know how, start there.
Start with the truth of that.
Because not knowing is real, too.

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