I appreciate facts. I also prepare myself for life’s inevitable challenges, knowing that misfortune is often just a knockaway. Acknowledging this doesn’t diminish my fear but helps me feel ready when the hardships arrive. However, conversations with uncertain outcomes—those that stir emotions or awaken unresolved feelings—are often met with discomfort. Death, for instance, is a prime example. For many, it remains taboo, yet it forced itself into my life early, changing the way I see, live, and speak. I’ve learned to embrace uncomfortable conversations, especially about topics like death. It’s a shared experience we will all encounter, so why not find comfort in discussing it openly, together?

As a writer, I observe life closely, trying to make sense of it all. I’ve lived through enough to know that suppressing who I am to accommodate someone else’s discomfort only enables inauthenticity—for both of us. Yet, I often notice that many people resist doing the hard work of facing their truths. They numb themselves, avoid the pain, and blame others for their unhappiness, as though this darkness will dissolve on its own. But it doesn’t. I want to tell them the void they feel will remain until they acknowledge their sadness and take responsibility for their choices. Their struggles, however, are not mine to bear.

I wonder why people can’t recognize that life’s trivialities and frustrations are fleeting and unworthy of the weight we give them. We must face our flaws, acknowledge our behaviors, and move forward. That’s what I want to say—figure your shit out and move on. Yet, I’ve learned that my truth often needs tempering, as not everyone is equipped to handle it.

Navigating truth in relationships requires a delicate balance, especially when saying what you see and feel. After 26 years of marriage, I’ve realized that honesty is essential to fostering trust and connection. But truth must be spoken with care, respecting the other person’s emotions and readiness to receive it. Yet, even after years of tempering my words, I sometimes wonder if my efforts have been in vain. If someone still can’t process the truth after all this time, it may be time to reconsider how I communicate or even the relationship itself.

I’ve come to understand that some people struggle with truth because of emotional baggage, trauma, or fear. In such cases, gradual exposure to truth or professional guidance may be needed—something I value, having worked with my trusted therapist, Tristen, for 15 years. Not constantly, of course—just for maintenance.

Yet, tempering my truth has come at a cost. It has been emotionally exhausting, leaving me with frustration, resentment, and a sense of inauthenticity. I’ve learned that true relationships can only thrive on honesty, and masking the truth corrodes the relationship and my sense of self. I refuse to compromise my self-respect for anyone unwilling to do their healing and self-reflection. I don’t engage in the blame game.

Boundaries and acceptance have become my allies. I’ve accepted that not everyone can handle the truth, and I’ve learned to set boundaries—deciding how much energy I want to invest in helping others understand and whether the effort is worth it. Letting go of certain relationships has been necessary, though bittersweet. Life without them feels freer and more refined.

At my core, I will always choose honesty. For most of my life, tempering my truth only got me into trouble—mostly with myself—because I resented others’ inability to receive it. Now, I aim for direct but compassionate conversations. It’s not easy, but I do my best to express my need for authentic connections and explain why truth is essential to me, even when it’s uncomfortable. While many struggle with my honesty, at least I’ve put it out there. I welcome constructive criticism—I’ve been a writer long enough to embrace red marks and edits. Growth comes from acknowledging our flaws and transforming them into strengths.

Letting go of the outcome has been one of the hardest lessons. No matter how carefully I deliver the truth, some people may never fully accept it. When that happens, I’ve learned to release the need to control their response and focus on maintaining my integrity and well-being. I can honestly say that I’ve always approached these moments with kindness and care.

When truth is withheld for too long, everyone suffers. Masking it creates shallow connections, eroding trust and respect. Through reflection, I’ve committed to setting clear intentions for truth-telling, knowing that honesty brings clarity and transformation. Whether the relationship deepens or distance becomes necessary, truth lets us make peace with what is.

In conclusion, I crave authenticity and meaningful connection. If a relationship requires me to hide my thoughts and feelings constantly, it lacks the depth I need. Brené Brown emphasizes that authenticity is essential for deep, trusting relationships, but vulnerability must also be practiced within boundaries. Thoughtful delivery, however, is my Achilles’ heel. There’s never a perfect time, so I speak my truth as it arises, doing my best to wrap it in compassionate language.

Still, I’ve come to understand that not everyone is ready for certain truths. Tristen wisely reminds me, “Sometimes, temporarily withholding certain truths can be the kinder approach, as long as you’re not dishonest.” While it’s not my preferred method, I’ve gone there a few times—though never happily.  I am an advocate for honest conflict versus dishonest harmony.

Tempering truth is a balancing act, one I don’t always master. But I know that when truth is masked too often, relationships become shallow, and trust erodes. For me, honesty is essential, but it must be balanced with empathy, timing, and care for the other person’s ability to receive it. I aim to create space for truth that strengthens connections and fosters growth. Though not always easy, it is, without question, essential.