“When we avoid difficult conversations, we trade short-term discomfort for long-term dysfunction.” ~Peter Bromberg
Have you ever looked around at other people’s lives and wondered, “How do they do that?”
How do they seem so steady, so connected, so… together?
From where I stood, there appeared to be a certain kind of person—someone confident, kind, thoughtful, and at ease in her relationships. And because she enjoyed her relationships, she seemed to enjoy her life.
I was not her.
For a long time, I thought I was the “nice” one in my relationships because I avoided confrontational conversations. But because I wasn’t saying what I felt, I let it come out in other ways.
I remember telling my boyfriend one night that it was fine for him to go out with his friends. But then when he got home, I was so angry with him for going.
He asked if I was okay, and I said, “I’m fine,” while not looking at him or making eye contact. I kept shutting my drawers loudly and making comments under my breath like “Must be nice to go out without me.”
What I wanted to say was, “Could you go out with your friends another night because I wanted to stay in and watch a movie together,” but asking directly was too hard, so I complained instead.
I wanted to be the “cool girl”—easygoing, unbothered, low-maintenance. But the truth was, I was pretending. Many things bothered me. I just didn’t know how to say it. And that unspoken frustration leaked out in the way I showed up—with tension, distance, and defensiveness.
This was just who I thought I was.
And because I didn’t know any different, I didn’t question it.
Then everything changed.
My first love passed away, and the world as I knew it disappeared.
Even though I was walking down the same streets, everything looked different. What once felt important—maintaining relationships with friends and family, eating, what to eat, what to wear, work—no longer mattered.
I remember lying on my floor, surrounded by tissues, realizing something I had never understood before: no one could take away my pain and make this better for me.
If I was going to keep living—if I was going to find a way through this—I would have to do it myself.
So I started searching.
I took classes. I went to seminars. I read everything I could get my hands on. And one theme kept appearing over and over again: the way we communicate shapes the way we experience our lives.
Eventually, I found myself at a writing and meditation workshop at a Shambhala center in New York. It was there that I learned how to meditate, which was the first time I ever sat with myself without judgment and evaluation, and was introduced to the Buddhist principles of right speech—speaking in ways that are truthful, kind, and helpful.
Something clicked.
I began to see that my suffering wasn’t just coming from what had happened to me—it was also coming from the way I related to my thoughts, my emotions, and other people. The overthinking, the emotional reactivity, the constant inner tension—they weren’t fixed parts of who I was. They were patterns.
And patterns can change.
If I wanted to change my life, I needed to change how I showed up in it—how I spoke, how I listened, how I related to myself and others.
So I treated it like an experiment.
What would happen if I practiced speaking honestly, kindly, and clearly?
I remember how nervous I was when my friend asked me how I felt about the guy she had been seeing. Normally, I would have said that I thought he was nice and that I was happy if she was, while quietly on the inside I felt the opposite.
Instead, I looked at her. I paused. And I knew my intention was to be honest, kind, and helpful, so I said, “I think you deserve someone who really treats you kindly and is supportive of you, and I don’t see that from him. “The conversation didn’t explode; she didn’t become defensive. She simply thought for a moment about what I said.
Each morning, I would wake up and set an intention for how I wanted to show up that day for myself and others. It was a gentle intention, knowing that I would likely stray from it, and my job was then to notice when I strayed, acknowledge it, and bring my attention back to my intention.
At first, it wasn’t easy. It meant noticing when I wanted to shut down or lash out and instead express myself and what was truly going on for me.
It meant learning how to pause so I could stop myself from reacting in a way that wasn’t helpful for me or the other person.
It meant noticing the desire to lie and instead telling the truth—even when it felt uncomfortable or scary.
It meant noticing how unkind I was talking to myself and instead seeing if I could become gentler and more friendly.
And slowly, things began to shift.
I became less passive-aggressive and less judgmental. My anxiety softened. I started expressing myself more clearly and directly. Conversations that once felt overwhelming became manageable. Even confrontation—something I used to avoid at all costs—became an opportunity for connection rather than conflict.
I remember having a moment where I was starting to get passive-aggressive and shut down with a friend of mine, and they looked at me and said, “You’re acting like a child.” Before, I would have really dug my heels in, defended myself, and said something hurtful. But instead, I looked at them and said, “You’re right.”
It was the most liberating moment for me, and because of it, the tension dissipated and we were able to enjoy our time together.
This practice didn’t just change how I communicated—it changed my relationships.
I found myself able to enter a new relationship with openness and honesty. I experienced what healthy communication actually feels like.
Because of this work, I respond more thoughtfully, with greater patience and awareness, to my children. I’m not perfect—far from it—but I’m present in a way I never was before.
And perhaps most importantly, it changed how I relate to myself. I don’t judge and evaluate myself as often as before. I can see myself through a friendly lens, which means I want to look out for myself and make choices that are helpful instead of hurtful.
I get to be human and emotional and make mistakes without beating myself up and thinking I need to be better, different, or fixed. There’s now an allowing and an acceptance of who I am at my best and my worst that I didn’t have before.
I’ve come to understand that the people who seem like they “have it all together” aren’t magically different. They’re practicing. They’re choosing—again and again—how they want to show up.
Communicating intentionally in our relationships gives us the opportunity to enjoy our lives, and it is a learned practice. It isn’t something that just happens. It’s something we cultivate.
It’s a daily practice of being present. Of noticing what we’re engaging with—internally and externally—and choosing what we want to feed.
It’s choosing to be kind when it would be easier to be reactive.
To be honest when it would be more comfortable to stay silent.
To be helpful when we feel defensive or afraid.
Mindfulness gave me the tools to pause in difficult moments—to ground myself, to come back to my body, and to respond instead of react.
And in that space, I found something I didn’t know I was looking for:
A way to live—and speak—that feels true.
About Cynthia Kane
Cynthia Kane is a communication coach, mindfulness teacher, and bestselling author who helps people stay calm, clear, and kind in difficult conversations. She has helped more than 70,000 people through her books, courses, workshops, and training programs. Cynthia blends Buddhist wisdom, mindfulness practices, and practical communication tools to help people communicate more intentionally with themselves and others. She is the author of four books, her latest is The Pause Principle: How to Keep Your Cool in Tough Situations. Visit her at cynthiakane.com.
