Recently, while departing a four-hour lunch with a friend, she looked me straight in the eye and said, “Above all else, we need to be kind.” The comment seemed to come from left field…then she repeated it lest I not grasp its importance.
I would give anything to have seen the look on my face—just to analyze the depth of my bewilderment.
At first, I wondered why she was telling me this. Was it her way of suggesting that I wasn’t kind? Was this a self-incriminating assumption on my part because she and I differ in ideology?
Well, that’s not true, I’m kind to a fault. So perhaps it was just a general statement, her way of expressing a wish that the world was kinder.
But here’s the thing: being kind has led to a world where people gaslight one another and suppress real conversation—measuring others by their degree of “kindness,” which is entirely subjective.
We don’t need more kindness in this world. We need more honesty.
Honesty gets a bad rap, as if being honest will automatically hurt someone—as if the scales of justice can’t balance truth with emotional resilience. That’s the trap.
I’m not advocating for honesty as a form of projection, but rather as a form of self-reckoning.
Let me give some background.
I’ve been doing shadow work for what feels like a lifetime, though in truth, my self-confrontation began in earnest a few years ago. Shadow work is hard. But once you begin to grasp even a sliver of your hidden issues, it’s a mistake to abandon the task.
These hidden patterns don’t just disappear—they linger in the unconscious until they’re brought into the light and processed. Meanwhile, they quietly shape your physical, emotional, and mental health. I’d recommend holding on until you get a fuller picture of those dark pools lurking beneath the surface.
My experience with shadow work? Some days are sweaty and gritty, like shoveling coal into hell’s insatiable furnace. Other days are breathable, easy, like when you realize the lawn needs mowing, or you’re out of clean underwear.
About 18 months ago, I volunteered to facilitate a city-sponsored discussion group—which meant bureaucratic rules applied.
The previous facilitator and group members had clashed with one participant who was frequently disruptive—sometimes explosive.
When volunteering as the replacement facilitator, I vowed to myself that I could help him feel welcome, perhaps even quell the outbursts. As a matter of fact, in volunteering I knew this was my area of expertise.
As time went on and his disruptions continued, I kept giving him a pass. At first, it was in the spirit of fairness, or so I thought. But then, it became a habit—a way of keeping the peace so he wouldn’t explode. I had learned these skills as a child: be kind, so I will be safe. And just like that, I fell right back into my comfort zone.
One day, despite all my efforts, he threw a tantrum—unpredictable and frightening. The city, for their own reasons, continued to enable him.
I tried to work through my feelings on paper. In retelling the events, I became increasingly uncomfortable with my kindness, telling myself I was taking the high road. But is the high road the one where you abandon your own feelings?
I posted the story on my blog, but it didn’t sit right with me—not because of the story itself, but because of the underlying emotions that kept begging to surface. It felt like unfinished business. It felt like I wasn’t being forthright, honest. There was something else.
Kindness, in this case, was suppressing the real emotion that needed to be acknowledged.
In quiet reflection, I realized this “kindness” came from a dysfunctional place within me. I had been programmed to be kind as a strategy—to keep myself safe from others’ emotional unpredictability.
What a red-letter moment.
If I were completely honest with myself, I’d admit I was angry. Angry that a room full of attendees—including me—had been held hostage by this person’s behavior. We either suffer with this person or choose not to attend the discussion group.
I chose not to push for his removal—from a place of kindness. And in doing so, I betrayed myself, just like adults in my childhood once betrayed me.
What a golden nugget that realization was.
Walking away from the group after betraying myself would perpetuate my trauma.
But walking away from the group, knowing full well that I’m angry about the circumstances and can’t do much to change them? That’s clarity. That’s congruency. That’s honesty.
And I can absolutely live with that.
Kindness without honesty doesn’t heal—it hides. And we end up surrounded by people pretending to be okay. True kindness can only begin where self-deception ends.
