I Say Exactly What I Mean

A Misread Moment

Picture this—a quiet evening at home, the kind where the world seems small, contained. My partner had been unwell, spending the day upstairs in bed. When he finally resurfaced, weary and frustrated, he announced that sleep had eluded him completely. I listened, thought for a moment, and then offered a suggestion, one rooted in practicality and the patterns I’d noticed over time.
“Why don’t we cuddle up, turn on one of our shows, and create the expectation that you’ll stay awake to watch it? Doesn’t that usually help you fall asleep?”
It was a simple idea, grounded in experience. Yet, instead of relief, my words met hesitation. He tilted his head, his expression thoughtful.
“Was that really necessary?” he asked.
For a moment, I paused, unsure. Then, he elaborated, “I’m not sure if you’re being serious or not… but I feel like this is about me always falling asleep when we watch something in the evenings. If that’s the case, I get it. But, as I’ve told you, I fall asleep because I feel so comfortable with you, not because I don’t care to spend time with you.”
It was a curious moment, and I could see where he was coming from. His reaction wasn’t to my suggestion—it was to what he thought my suggestion meant. His mind traveled back to previous moments when he’d fallen asleep, and I, in the riptide of emotion, had expressed frustration. To him, my practical solution carried an undercurrent of critique, a veiled jab pointing to what he perceived as a recurrent failure on his part.

Clearing the Air

The moment felt fragile, like balancing on thin ice. And yet, my intent had nothing to do with subtle critiques or past grievances. My suggestion stood alone, untangled from the history his mind had drawn in, its sole purpose to be helpful.
I took a breath and explained this. I assured him that my words had no layers, no hidden meanings. “I mean exactly what I say,” I began. “This isn’t about frustration or passive remarks. It’s about something I’ve noticed—a pattern—and the fact that it seems to work when you need help falling asleep. That’s all. No more, no less.”
I added that while my previous feelings of frustration weren’t lost on me, they weren’t relevant now. They had served their time, expressed their truth, and drifted away. What mattered here wasn’t a lingering emotion but a stable, observable reality, one that could help us in the present.
“I trust that when you fall asleep, it’s not because you don’t care about our time together,” I added, “and I hope you trust that I’m not trying to be sly or hurtful here. I’ve worked to come to this place—I can separate what matters now from what was then. And right now, it’s about solving a problem, not re-entering emotional labyrinths. You can't sleep, so I'm 'throwing a sink at it'.”
And then something shifted. His shoulders relaxed, and the air gently cleared. Trust bridged the gap, and the confusion dissolved.

The Space Between Assumptions

This encounter stayed with me, rising later like a ripple in still water. It reminded me of the invisible forces that drive so much of human interaction. Assumptions, beliefs, and emotional triggers shape the way we see each other’s intentions. They create barriers, often unnoticed, that cloud understanding and keep us spinning in loops of misinterpretation.
Without awareness, we all carry these invisible labyrinths. The assumptions go unchallenged, the emotional “programs” run their course, and we find ourselves tangled in the thickets of what we perceived, rather than what was true. And yet, clarity is possible.

Over the years, I’ve learned to see patterns—not just in others’ behavior, but in my own. I’ve worked to separate what is true from what is merely triggered. This isn’t about rejecting emotions, or suppressing them. On the contrary, it’s about honouring their purpose, "parsing" them. Feelings are messengers, valuable and vivid, but they don’t always belong in decisions or conversations. By stepping back and asking, “Does this serve this moment?” I find I can move forward with more trust, in myself and in others.

This way of thinking is fundamental to how I communicate. Directness is not a lack of warmth; it is a gift of clarity. It’s a commitment to trust that what I’m saying carries no veiled critiques or subtle prods. I simply say what I mean, and I mean what I say. Nothing more, nothing less.

If you choose to engage deeply with my work, I ask this of you—understand that I say exactly what I mean. There’s no hidden insult concealed within my words, no invisible barbs aimed to wound. When I challenge an idea, it’s not an attack on a person. When I explore a concept, it’s not to provoke but to grow. Trust that my intention is to invite dialogue, not conflict; exploration, not division. Together, we can peel back the unnecessary layers that so often obscure meaning and discover the open spaces where understanding thrives.

This is my lullaby to those accustomed to the constant hum of insinuation or the noise of indirect communication. You can rest here. My words are as they seem. And if something feels unclear, ask—because clarity isn’t just something we reach for; it’s something we create together. If we commit to curiosity over defensiveness, to reflection over assumption, perhaps we can meet each other in a space where understanding is not just possible—but inevitable.