There have been so many versions of this conversation with friends and family that I can’t identify a single one as the reason it has stayed with me.
Someone will tell me they’re unhappy with something in their life, and I’ll offer a perspective that might help them see it differently. They’ll explain why their current way of thinking makes sense, and we’ll move on without my being sure they gave the idea much consideration. I’m left with the sense that they were more concerned with defending their position than understanding what I was getting at.
One example came when I was talking with a parent about the way we give instructions to children. I suggested that, depending on the child and the situation, a request framed around what they should do might work better than one centred on what they shouldn’t do. “Put your toys in the box” gives them a clear action to take. “Don’t throw your toys on the floor” puts the image of throwing them on the floor in the instruction, which may be part of why a child goes ahead and does it anyway.
The parent pushed back, explaining that strict rules mattered and children needed to know what they weren’t allowed to do. I remember thinking they’d been telling me moments earlier how often their children ignored instructions, and wondering why they weren’t curious about another approach. I didn’t expect them to accept my suggestion on the spot, though I did hope they might ask a question or two.
Another conversation involved a friend who often talked about health problems and the explanations they had for them. I offered a way of thinking about attention and identity: when we see ourselves in a particular way, we can become very good at noticing evidence that supports that picture. I wondered whether focusing so much on what was wrong had become part of a pattern that kept them searching for more problems, when perhaps some attention could also go toward what was going well, and toward the habits and changes they wanted to build.
They came back to the importance of diagnosing and treating their health issues. I felt the conversation close. They were still struggling, and the approach they described didn’t seem to be getting them where they wanted to go. I thought I was offering something they might find useful. They seemed to hear a challenge to what they already believed.
My first explanation for my frustration was that I was watching someone suffer while turning away from a possible way through. That was part of it. It hurts to care about someone and feel you can’t reach them, particularly when you believe an idea might help and they don’t appear willing to explore it.
Still, that didn’t account for the force of my reaction. My disappointment quickly became anger. I wanted them to listen and give the idea a fair hearing; I wanted them to see what I could see.
Someone offered me another way to understand what might be happening. “It’s about protecting the ego, which is about safety,” they said. “Protect the position, avoid having to be wrong, keep yourself safe.” On that view, being wrong can feel like a small threat to the self we’re trying to protect.
That explanation changed how I saw those conversations. I could feel some of the anger loosen as I began to understand the other person’s attachment to their position as an effort to protect themself. Their response started to feel less personal, with less of the sting of rejection and more of an explanation rooted in their own sense of safety. The belief might be tied to how they understand themselves, or to what they fear could happen if they let it go. I don’t know exactly what was happening inside either person I’ve described, but the safety explanation gave me a more generous way to understand what I was seeing.
It also helped me understand why an argument on its own may not get through. When a position is tied to someone’s sense of safety, another idea can feel threatening before they’ve properly considered it.
Then I had to turn the same question toward myself. Why did it matter so much that they listened?
I had been telling myself I wanted to help, and I did. I trusted the perspective I’d offered, and I also wanted reassurance that my insight was sound. When they dismissed it, I was quick to conclude they were being defensive or unwilling to change. Once I caught that reaction, I had to ask whether I was prepared to give my own position the kind of good-faith examination I wanted from them. I was. I turned the question back on myself and stayed with the discomfort it brought up, because I don’t expect anyone to examine an idea or take on a practice that I’m unwilling to examine or take on myself.
The parent example makes that especially clear. I believe there can be value in giving a child a clear instruction about what to do, and I still think the suggestion has merit. I offered it as though the alternative deserved a hearing, though I didn’t ask what had already worked with their child or what they thought mattered about being firm. I didn’t know whether my suggestion would work in their household. I had a plausible idea and a strong opinion about their response to it.
The health conversation asks for even more care. A person’s symptoms deserve proper attention and assessment. My thoughts about attention and identity don’t explain someone’s health conditions, and they can’t replace appropriate care. I may have spoken as though a change in perspective could interrupt a pattern I believed I could see. Perhaps my friend heard me minimising what they were experiencing, which would make it understandable that they held their ground.
I can see how readily I treated disagreement as evidence that someone wasn’t curious. Yet curiosity has to leave room for the possibility that the other person has reasons I haven’t understood, or that my idea isn’t right for them. Otherwise, I’m asking them to be open while keeping myself protected from the very thing I say I value: being challenged.
I’d like to say this understanding has made me perfectly patient in these conversations. It hasn’t. I still feel the familiar irritation when someone appears to have made up their mind before I’ve finished speaking, and I still feel the sadness of watching someone live with a problem they might be able to approach differently.
What I can sometimes do now is notice the anger before I turn it into a verdict about them. I can ask what I wanted from the conversation, and whether I was listening as closely as I hoped they would. Their defensiveness may be protecting something. My frustration may be protecting something too.
Being right can feel like safety. So can being the person with the answer. If the idea I’ve offered is right, then I have something useful to give. If it isn’t, I have to stay with the possibility that I misunderstood, or mistook what helps me for what will help someone else.
That possibility is uncomfortable, and it feels more honest than deciding their refusal proves my point.
If something here sounds familiar and you’d like to find out what you’re protecting, book a See What Needs to Change call at joshboxx.com. We’ll work out what’s going on and what to do about it.
