TL;DR: I wrote an awful lot of words about how words aren't always enough. The short version? Communication is a two-way street, understanding takes effort, and there's a human being on each end.
I wonder sometimes how a conversation might have gone differently if the person reading my words could have seen me smiling as I wrote them.
Not an emoji but an actual smile, the kind that comes with a side of affection and gentle teasing. The kind that conveys the tone and meaning behind the words.
I've had whole conversations go south, and more often than not it's been over text. You know how it goes, don't you? Ordinary convos become misunderstandings, misunderstandings become arguments, and those arguments do harm neither person intended.
I've been on both sides; the regret stings either way.
It’s a strange thing, miscommunication. Two people can participate in the same conversation and come away with radically different experiences.
I've been thinking a lot about this lately, both personally and professionally: what we say, what we mean, what other people hear, and the chasm that sometimes exists between those things.
The Space Between Us
Face to face, we're communicating with much more than words. There's tone, expression, posture, timing and myriad cues we barely notice. We recognize a sly smile, hear the affection in a sarcastic remark, or notice a brief hesitation before someone finds the words.
Even then we misunderstand each other. Of course we do. We're complicated creatures, each of us carrying a lifetime of experiences into every conversation. But remove the voice, the face, and the physical proximity to nuance, and something important changes.
Something vital.
A text message contains the words but not necessarily the meaning we intended; the person receiving it fills in what's missing—often without realizing it—through their own experiences, expectations, and emotional state.
Boom. Misunderstanding.
We all do it, but what haunts me is how quickly an interpretation can become a certainty. Once we have decided what someone meant, confirmation bias sets in and soon we see evidence in everything that follows. An explanation sounds defensive, reassurance feels dismissive or patronizing, and even an apology can be misunderstood.
Before long, we're responding not to what someone actually said, but to what we decided they meant.
Ouch.
So Much Information, So Little Understanding
We live in an extraordinary time for communication. For better or worse, we can reach nearly anyone, nearly anywhere, almost instantly. We have access to more information than any generation before us, and an ever-expanding collection of tools for producing, distributing and interpreting it.
We've mastered the art of getting messages across the world. Getting them across to one another is another matter.
So much of the information we consume comes to us stripped of context.
A sound bite is pulled from a longer conversation
A sensational headline replaces a complicated story
An image circulates without context, or depicts something that never happened
A confident assertion appears beside a carefully researched explanation, both competing for the same few seconds of attention
A text message is interpreted without the voice or expression that might have changed its meaning
We're making more judgments in less time, often without the luxury of context, while the very technologies that make communication so easy encourage us to knee-jerk react before we've had time to think. (Guilty.)
We mistake familiarity for understanding and emotional certainty for factual certainty. (Again.)
There's a human cost to all of this. I feel it. Do you?
I’m not saying technology is inherently the enemy of meaningful communication. I mean, I've made friends, learned a multitude of things, and developed lasting relationships through digital spaces. Much of my professional life depends on them.
But technology is a tool, and tools change the way we work.
I take more care writing a card by hand than sending a text message, but the words could easily matter just as much.
When a tool removes something essential (like taking care) from an interaction, we need to recognize what's missing and make some effort to compensate for it.
What We Send Into the World
I spend a lot of my professional life thinking about communication.
As a writer, editor, and website designer, I help people tell stories, explain what they do, and reach the people they're hoping to reach. As an artist and teacher, communication is just as central.
Much of that work begins with listening. Before I can help someone tell their story, I have to understand what they're trying to convey, what matters to them, and often recognize what they haven't quite found the words for.
Then I have to consider the person on the receiving end. I have to step outside what I already know and try to see the message from their perspective. What will they understand? What might they assume? What questions will they have?
Typography, imagery, color, and presentation all influence how a message might be perceived. This image might convey warmth, that typeface can suggest playfulness, and the order of information can affect meaning.
In some ways, these are the smiles, nuances, and gestures of professional communication. They provide context, help convey intention, and offer clues about how we're meant to interpret what's in front of us.
But even with all those tools at our disposal, we can't control what another person takes away. We can only do our best to anticipate their perspective, make room for what they don't know, and communicate with care.
A message may be perfectly clear to its creator and still fail to communicate. That's something I consider often in my work, and increasingly in my personal life. (Note to self: I may have the order of importance backward.)
The Responsibility to Understand
There's an interesting contradiction here.
Professionally, we generally accept that understanding our audience is part of communicating effectively. We adjust our language, provide context, anticipate questions in FAQs, and try to make the message accessible to the folks we hope to reach. When it fails, we hope our PR team is solid. (Mine is me, unfortunately.)
But personally, we often expect the people closest to us to understand what we mean simply because they know us.
Sometimes we become less careful with the people whose understanding matters most.
And when communication fails, we may become so focused on defending what we meant—or what we heard—that we lose sight of the person we're trying to reach. Of how much it mattered to reach them. Of how much they matter.
We owe one another some care in how we express ourselves, and some grace in how we hear each other out. It matters, and it’s cumulative.
Responsibility isn't always equally shared. The more influence we have over what others see, hear, and believe, the greater our obligation to communicate thoughtfully and honestly. But whatever our role in an exchange, we have a responsibility to try to understand.
We can ask what someone meant before deciding what they intended. We can recognize when maybe some of our own baggage is doing the interpreting for us. We can allow for the possibility that someone who cares about us didn’t realize how their words would land.
We can be curious before we're certain. We could grow closer rather than apart.
And if you're wondering whether any of this applies to you, it does. It applies to me, too.
To be clear, this doesn't mean dismissing our own feelings or excusing genuinely hurtful behavior.
We can all intend kindness and still cause pain. Intention doesn't erase impact any more than feeling hurt proves that harm was intended.
Sometimes the most important part of a conversation is being willing to hold those truths together. Other times, it's recognizing when the conversation has outgrown the medium, and what we're trying to say deserves a voice, a face, or the patience of sitting together until we understand each other a little better.
And occasionally, sadly, despite our best efforts, understanding remains just out of reach. We can offer up all the honesty and goodwill and grace we can muster, but none of it guarantees we won't hit a brick wall.
I wish I had recognized all of this sooner in some conversations. I wish other people had, too.
I cared. I was hurt. I didn't mean it that way. I hear you now. I'm sorry. I wish I'd understood sooner. You mattered. You still do.
It might have sounded something like that.
Making Room
I'm not sure we can ever entirely bridge the distance between what one person means and another understands, though poets come close. Language has always been imperfect, and no technology can change the fact that we each experience the world differently.
As the world becomes more crowded with messages, complicated by artificial content, and demanding of our attention, small acts of consideration matter more than ever. So do our words.
There's vulnerability on both sides of a meaningful conversation. It takes courage to express ourselves honestly, and sometimes just as much to listen with an open mind. Neither guarantees we'll be understood, but both make it possible.
I can't always make you hear what I meant, and you can't always know what I intended. But somewhere between our limitations is a choice we can make together.
We can assume we already understand, or we can make room for the possibility that there's more to the story.
That little bit of room might make all the difference.
This is an invitation.
