The Quiet Violence of Caring

(with apologies to Nietzsche)

To speak is to steer.

Even the gentlest words are not free of force.

“I’m sorry you’re feeling that way” — meant as care, offered with softness — may land like shrapnel.

Because words don’t just move forward.

They ricochet through memory.

They awaken ghosts we didn’t summon, in places we’ve never been.

For the wounded, being seen can feel like being hunted.

For the unhealed, even kindness can be a trigger.

And if kindness can hurt, then what of judgment?

What of criticism, even when meant as help?

These land harder.

Sharper.

Because they ride the same path as the old harms — and the mind, always scanning, mistakes echoes for attacks.

This is the Illusion of Conversation:

— That we can mean well and be received well.

— That impact follows intention.

It doesn’t.

And yet, we speak.

Not to control, but to matter — and find ourselves tangled in the ancient machinery of cause and effect.

But peace is not found in perfecting the manipulation.

It’s not found in crafting words so precisely they leave no mark.

Peace lives deeper.

It comes from presence.

From confidence rooted in a truth:

— Our emotions, though powerful, are ours to hold.

— No one makes us feel — We feel.

And still… we keep trying.

Because conversation is not avoidable.

We are here to witness each other.

To hold space, even clumsily.

To offer light, even if it flickers.

This is what it means to be human:

— To reach for connection, knowing we might bruise each other.

— To disappoint, despite our best intentions.

And to show up anyway.