There’s a conversation I’ve been dodging lately. To be completely honest, there are several—not earth-shattering heart-to-hearts or life-altering declarations, but rather a collection of small, significant truths that quietly accumulate over time. A boundary that needs to be set. A feeling that begs to be named. A moment that didn’t sit quite right and keeps replaying itself while I’m brushing my teeth. These seemingly simple moments take on disproportionate weight the longer they are left unspoken, slowly morphing into something larger, harder, and heavier than they needed to be.
The irony is not lost on me. I understand exactly why I hesitate. I can map the behavioral science behind conflict aversion, avoidance, and the human tendency to prioritize short-term comfort over long-term health. And yet, here I am—sidestepping the conversations as if avoiding discomfort were a badge of honor. Knowing the reasons behind our avoidance doesn’t immunize us against the difficulty of facing it. If anything, it makes the avoidance feel even more frustrating, like watching yourself walk straight into a trap you recognize but still can’t quite escape.
The Science Behind Avoidance (Briefly, Before I Overthink This Too)
Avoiding uncomfortable conversations isn’t a character flaw. It’s an entirely human impulse, built into the architecture of our brains. Even minor interpersonal conflicts are processed as potential threats, activating the same circuits that respond to physical danger. Our need for belonging is so deeply ingrained that even the faintest risk of disrupting social harmony can feel perilous. And because uncertainty is its own form of discomfort, we often choose the familiar pain of silence over the unpredictable consequences of speaking up.
In that light, avoidance isn’t a mystery. It’s self-preservation—or at least, the illusion of it.
But normalizing the instinct doesn’t mean it’s serving us well. Avoidance may shield us from momentary discomfort, but it often costs us much more over time: resentment, distance, self-doubt. The longer I let something important go unspoken, the more it festers beneath the surface, subtly eroding the foundation of relationships I value. And perhaps more importantly, it chips away at the relationship I have with myself.
The Questions I Catch Myself Asking
Whenever I feel that familiar tightness in my chest—the one that signals something needs to be said—I inevitably find myself questioning whether it’s really necessary. I wonder, “Am I overreacting?” which is often just code for, “Am I being too sensitive? Will someone think less of me for caring this much?” I tell myself, “Maybe it will just blow over,” bargaining with time, hoping that silence will smooth out what honesty might disrupt. I ask, “Am I making a big deal out of nothing?” because it feels safer to minimize my experience than to risk someone else dismissing it for me.
And always, underneath it all, there’s the harder question:
“Will they see me differently once they know how I feel? Will they think less of me, or misunderstand who I really am?”
That fear—of being judged, diminished, or misinterpreted—has a weight all its own. But here’s the truth I’m learning to hold onto: just because someone else might struggle to understand my feelings doesn’t make them any less real. Just because a conversation feels uncomfortable doesn’t mean it’s unwarranted. My experience matters, even if it’s inconvenient. And the people who truly care about me can handle hearing the reality of my inner world, not just the polished, agreeable parts.
What I’m Reminding Myself (And Maybe You, Too)
Prioritizing your own feelings is not selfishness; it’s self-respect.
It’s an acknowledgment that your emotional experiences have weight, meaning, and value. It’s a recognition that while discomfort is a short-term cost, emotional suppression is a long-term debt—and one that compounds over time.
The goal of speaking up isn’t to create drama or provoke conflict. It’s to create clarity where there was previously confusion, and to nurture relationships based on reality rather than performance. It’s about lightening the invisible burdens we carry when we tell ourselves that keeping the peace is more important than telling the truth.
The bravery isn’t in finding the perfect words. It’s in showing up for your own experience—and trusting that doing so is, in itself, an act of deep integrity.
No Neat Conclusion, Just an Ongoing Practice
I haven’t had all the conversations yet. Some of them are still scribbled in the margins of my mind, waiting for the right moment—or, more accurately, for the moment when I’m willing to be a little less comfortable and a little more honest.
But I’m closer.
Closer to believing that even small truths deserve to breathe.
Closer to trusting that relationships worth nurturing can withstand honest conversations.
Closer to remembering that being thoughtful and being assertive are not opposing forces—they are necessary companions.
If you find yourself circling a conversation you’ve been avoiding, know you aren’t alone.
Most of us are pacing similar kitchens, rehearsing similar sentences, trying to summon the courage to be just a little braver than we were yesterday.
Maybe today, it’s enough to take a breath and say one small thing.
Maybe that’s how it starts.
