I don't know any of us who are in relationships that are totally

In the words of Richard Gere, “I don’t know any of us who are in relationships that are totally honest — it doesn’t exist.” These words, though uttered with modern breath, echo an ancient truth that has pulsed in the human heart since the dawn of time. They speak not of deceit born from malice, but of the fragile nature of human connection, where the heart hides what the tongue dares not confess. For honesty, in its purest form, is a mirror that reflects both light and shadow — and few souls can endure the sight of their own imperfection so nakedly revealed before another.

Long ago, the Greek sage Solon was asked why friendship and love, though divine in promise, often falter in truth. He replied, “Because man is a creature of masks — not of lies, but of fear.” Fear, yes — fear of rejection, fear of loss, fear of being seen and found unworthy. Thus, even those who love most deeply weave veils of silence and gentle falsehoods around their hearts, believing that a softer truth will protect the bond they hold dear. And so, relationships become temples half-lit, where honesty flickers like a candle — radiant, yet trembling before the winds of vulnerability.

But let not these words dishearten you. For Gere’s reflection is not a lament, but a revelation of compassion. To be “not totally honest” is to be human; to love, even imperfectly, is to strive toward the divine. It is in the spaces between what we say and what we mean that tenderness grows — in the pauses, the glances, the acts of kindness that speak truths the lips cannot bear to utter. The ancients knew this well: truth is not only spoken — it is lived.

Consider the story of Emperor Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-king. It is said that though he ruled with reason, his heart often concealed pain. To his beloved wife, Faustina, he shared only fragments of his sorrow, fearing to burden her with the weight of empire. Yet their bond endured, not through perfect honesty, but through shared endurance, unspoken understanding, and faith in one another’s silent struggles. Their love was not “totally honest” — but it was real, and it was enough.

In our own time, how often do we hold our tongues when our hearts ache to speak? We hide our insecurities behind smiles, our doubts behind reassurances. Yet, in these small concealments, there is also mercy — for truth, when wielded without wisdom, can wound more deeply than any lie. Thus, the wise learn that honesty must walk hand in hand with compassion; that truth without love is cruelty, and love without truth is illusion.

The lesson, then, is not to demand perfect honesty from others, but to cultivate courage within ourselves — to reveal what is real when it serves love, and to hold silence when truth would bring harm. Relationships are not built on the sharp edges of absolute truth, but on the delicate balance of openness and grace. To know when to speak and when to stay still — that is the art of the soul.

And so, dear listener, walk your path with gentle truth. Be honest not for the sake of virtue, but for the sake of connection. Speak what your heart can bear, and forgive what others cannot yet reveal. Let your love be both brave and kind, for in that union lies the true meaning of Gere’s words: that while total honesty may not exist, total humanity does — and that, in the end, is far more beautiful.