How Our Wounds Can Kill Conversation

From Self-Protection to the Freedom to Truly See Another Person

There is something I have been thinking about lately that is both uncomfortable and strangely hopeful:

What if some of the conversations I thought were simply awkward, dry, or difficult were actually conversations in which I was trying to feel safe?

What if my inability to keep a conversation alive was not simply a lack of social skill?

What if, underneath it, there was insecurity?

A fear of being insignificant.

A fear of being judged.

A need to appear competent, interesting, knowledgeable or important.

A need, somehow, to feel bigger so that I would not have to feel small.

And if that is true, then perhaps I need to look at conversation differently.

Because conversation is not merely about knowing what to say.

It is about being present to another human being.

And perhaps trauma can interfere with that presence in ways we don't immediately recognize.

When I am not safe inside

When a person has experienced enough emotional wounding, the body and mind can learn to live in a state of self-protection.

Even when there is no obvious danger, something inside may still be asking:

Am I okay?

How am I being perceived?

Do they respect me?

Do they think I'm intelligent enough?

Am I being ignored?

Am I losing control?

How can I make sure I don't look small?

And suddenly, without realizing it, a conversation that should have been an encounter with another person becomes an exercise in managing myself.

I am listening, but part of me is listening to myself.

I am talking, but part of me is watching how I am coming across.

I am waiting for my turn.

I am thinking about what I should say next.

I am wondering whether I am interesting enough.

And because so much of my attention is turned inward, there is less attention available for the person sitting in front of me.

That is the tragedy.

The more preoccupied I am with how I am being experienced, the less capable I may become of actually experiencing the other person.

The need to feel bigger

Perhaps this is one of the more difficult things to admit.

Sometimes insecurity doesn't make us withdraw.

Sometimes it makes us perform.

We tell stories.

We demonstrate what we know.

We offer advice.

We explain.

We correct.

We subtly compare.

We try to be funny.

We talk about our accomplishments.

We steer the conversation toward subjects where we feel competent.

None of these things are necessarily wrong.

The problem is what may be underneath them.

Sometimes the hidden message is:

“If I can make myself impressive, perhaps I won't have to feel insignificant.”

If I can establish my knowledge, perhaps I will feel secure.

If I can make them admire me, perhaps I will feel worthy.

If I can control the conversation, perhaps I won't feel vulnerable.

And so conversation becomes a strange attempt to regulate my own sense of worth.

I am not necessarily trying to dominate the other person.

I may simply be trying to escape the feeling of being small.

But the other person may experience something entirely different.

They may experience someone who doesn't seem interested in them.

Someone who talks at them rather than with them.

Someone whose questions feel like a formality.

Someone whose eyes seem occupied elsewhere.

Someone who doesn't seem to notice that there is a whole human being sitting across the table.

And that realization hurts.

Because what may have been self-protection for me may have felt like rejection to them.

Trauma can kill conversation

Perhaps this is one way trauma kills conversation:

It makes the self too preoccupied with survival to be fully available for relationship.

The conversation becomes:

What should I say?

instead of:

Who is this person?

It becomes:

Do they like me?

instead of:

What can I discover about them?

It becomes:

How am I doing?

instead of:

How are they doing?

It becomes:

How can I prove my value?

instead of:

How can I help this person experience their own value?

That is a profound difference.

The other person can feel it

We often think communication is primarily about words.

But perhaps the first language of conversation is the gaze.

Before I ask a question, my eyes have already said something.

Before I say, “How are you?”, my face may already have communicated whether I actually want to know.

There is a difference between looking at someone and seeing them.

A person can feel when your attention has actually arrived.

They can feel when you are waiting for them to finish so that you can speak.

They can feel when you are evaluating them.

They can feel when you are distracted by yourself.

And they can also feel something beautiful:

“This person is genuinely interested in me.”

That can be deeply disarming.

Imagine being with someone whose eyes communicate:

I am glad you are here.

You don't have to impress me.

I am not evaluating you.

I am listening.

Your story matters.

There is nowhere else I need to be right now.

That kind of gaze can become a gift.

Perhaps genuine interest begins before the first question

I have been thinking about what it would mean to enter a conversation differently.

Not with the goal of being interesting.

Not with the goal of making the conversation successful.

Not even with the goal of being a good conversationalist.

But simply with the intention:

“I want to see this person.”

Before speaking, perhaps I can pause for a moment and remind myself:

This is a person.

A person with a story I don't know.

A person who has experienced things I have never experienced.

A person who has suffered things I cannot see.

A person who has hopes, disappointments, fears, joys and dreams.

A person who has probably spent much of life wondering whether they matter.

A person who, like me, wants to be seen, known and loved.

And suddenly, I don't have to manufacture conversation.

Curiosity begins to generate conversation.

Ask questions that give people permission to be valuable

There is a difference between asking questions simply to keep a conversation going and asking questions that invite someone to discover something meaningful about themselves.

Instead of:

“How was your trip?”

I might ask:

“What was the best part of the trip for you?”

Instead of:

“How is work?”

I might ask:

“What do you enjoy most about what you do?”

Instead of:

“How are your children?”

I might ask:

“What are you enjoying about this stage of being a parent?”

Instead of:

“Are you still working there?”

I might ask:

“What keeps you excited about the work you're doing?”

And sometimes:

“What has been bringing you joy lately?”

“What are you looking forward to?”

“What have you been learning recently?”

“What are you proud of?”

“What has surprised you lately?”

“What is something you wish more people knew about you?”

These aren't merely questions for gathering information.

They communicate something deeper:

“Your experience is worth hearing.”

“Your thoughts matter.”

“Your life interests me.”

“There is something valuable in you that I want to discover.”

From being interesting to being interested

Perhaps one of the great movements of healing is this:

From needing to be interesting

to becoming genuinely interested.

From needing to be seen
to becoming capable of seeing.

From proving myself
to discovering another.

From taking space
to making space.

From asking, “How do I appear?”
to asking, “Who is this person?”

And perhaps underneath all of it is a much deeper transformation:

I don't need to be big anymore.

I can allow someone else to be impressive.

I can allow someone else to know more than I do.

I can listen without immediately adding my own story.

I can ask a question without needing to bring the conversation back to myself.

I can admit, “I don't know.”

I can let someone else shine.

Because my worth no longer depends upon occupying the largest space in the room.

The freedom of feeling safe

There is something beautiful that happens when we begin to feel safe inside.

We become less defensive.

We don't have to win every argument.

We don't have to demonstrate our intelligence.

We don't have to tell everyone what we know.

We don't have to make ourselves indispensable.

We don't have to fill every silence.

We can simply be.

And when I am not desperately trying to protect my own worth, I have more freedom to notice yours.

Your eyes.

Your voice.

The hesitation before you answer.

The excitement in your story.

The sadness you are trying to hide.

The thing you keep coming back to because it matters to you.

The little detail that makes you smile.

I begin to hear not only what you are saying, but something of who you are.

That is when conversation begins to become something more than conversation.

It becomes communion.

Perhaps this is what love looks like in conversation

We often imagine love as something dramatic.

Sacrifice.

Service.

Forgiveness.

Generosity.

But perhaps love can begin with something much smaller:

I am willing to give you my attention.

I am willing to stop making myself the center.

I am willing to be curious about you.

I am willing to let your story matter.

I am willing to look at you long enough to actually see you.

Perhaps that is why the gaze matters so much.

Because when I truly look at another person, I am saying:

“You are not an interruption to my life.”

“You are not merely someone I need something from.”

“You are not an audience for my performance.”

“You are a person worthy of my attention.”

And perhaps, in a world where so many people feel invisible, that is an extraordinary gift.

The healing of conversation

I don't think the answer is to become a better conversationalist through techniques.

The deeper invitation may be to become more present.

To become secure enough that I no longer have to make myself bigger.

To become healed enough that another person's greatness doesn't diminish me.

To become peaceful enough that silence doesn't frighten me.

To become curious enough that I don't need to prepare my next sentence while the other person is speaking.

To become humble enough to say:

“Tell me more.”

And mean it.

Maybe healing doesn't necessarily make us more talkative.

Maybe it makes us more available.

And perhaps availability is one of the greatest forms of love.

“Tell me more.”

I think I want to practice those two words.

Not as a conversational technique.

As a posture of the heart.

When someone tells me something interesting:

Tell me more.

When someone tells me about something difficult:

Tell me more.

When someone speaks about something they love:

Tell me more.

When someone shares something I don't understand:

Tell me more.

When someone seems hesitant:

Tell me more.

When I am tempted to bring the conversation back to myself:

Tell me more.

Because perhaps the opposite of trauma's narrowing of attention is not becoming more impressive.

It is becoming more curious.

More receptive.

More present.

More capable of wonder.

More capable of seeing.

And perhaps that is part of what healing ultimately gives us:

the freedom to look at another human being and be genuinely interested in the miracle of who they are.