I really do feel like the work and time we spend avoiding having

The words of Shonda Rhimes—“I really do feel like the work and time we spend avoiding having difficult conversations is so much more wasteful and painful and time-consuming than actually having the difficult conversation.”—carry the weight of lived wisdom. They remind us that fear of confrontation builds prisons more enduring than walls of stone. The difficult conversation, though sharp in the moment, frees the spirit and clears the path. To delay, to evade, to silence ourselves for the sake of comfort—this is to chain the soul in shadows, to let poison drip slowly instead of cutting it out at once.

The ancients knew this truth well. In the councils of kings, in the gatherings of citizens, silence in the face of truth was often the seed of ruin. The work of avoidance feels easier at first—it is the smile that hides resentment, the nod that conceals disagreement, the silence that swallows courage. But this false peace grows heavy. It devours time, it sows misunderstanding, and it turns brothers into strangers. Far better, says Rhimes, to endure the storm of honesty than to carry the endless burden of avoidance.

Consider the story of Cato the Younger, the Roman statesman. He was famed for his bluntness and unyielding truth, even when it brought discomfort. In the Senate, he spoke against the corruption of Caesar and others, though it endangered his life. His words often stung, but they carved clarity where deceit had taken root. Those who despised him for his sharpness later respected him for his integrity. His example teaches us: the pain of one bold word is lighter than the years of suffering that grow from silence.

The waste of avoidance is not measured only in time, but in the erosion of trust. When we refuse to speak truth, we create gaps between ourselves and others. Misunderstandings widen, resentments harden, and love is drained away in secrecy. A friendship not strengthened by honesty becomes brittle; a family not guided by truth grows distant. The wound left unspoken festers, while the wound addressed begins to heal. Thus, avoidance steals not only hours from our days but years from our bonds.

And yet, the difficult conversation is often smaller than we imagine. The fear of it looms larger than the thing itself. Many have discovered that once the words are spoken, relief floods the heart. The mountain shrinks into a hill, the storm passes into calm. We suffer more in imagining the conflict than in walking through it. This is why Rhimes, a master of weaving stories of human conflict and reconciliation, declares that it is the avoidance itself that consumes us.

For us, the lesson is clear and urgent: speak when the soul commands it. Do not trade short-term comfort for long-term decay. If a truth burns within you—whether of apology, of boundary, of love, or of justice—do not bury it under silence. Speak it with courage, but also with compassion. For even the harshest truth, when spoken with respect, opens the door to growth and healing.

Practically, this means we must practice the art of courageous speech. Begin with small acts: tell a friend when their words have hurt you, ask for clarity when confused, express gratitude before it is too late. Let honesty become a habit, not a last resort. Approach every difficult conversation not as battle, but as bridge-building. For when spoken with intention, truth is not a weapon but a lantern, casting light where there was darkness.

So remember this teaching: silence in the face of truth is not peace, but slow destruction. The greater pain lies not in the moment of confrontation, but in the years wasted by avoidance. Speak, therefore, with courage, and you will find that honesty, though difficult, is the surest path to freedom. This is the wisdom of the ancients, passed down to us now: that a single brave word may save a life, mend a bond, or even change the course of destiny.