Who are you protecting with that decision?

There are questions that do not comfort you. They confront you. They arrive like a mirror you did not ask for, reflecting not just what you did but why you did it.

“What made you make that decision? Who were you protecting, yourself, or the other person? And why did protecting yourself feel necessary in that moment?”

I was asked these questions at one of my lowest points. Not when I had language for my emotions, not when I had clarity to defend myself, but when everything in me was already fragile. And yet, those questions did something no advice ever had. They stripped away my explanations and left me with truth. As the old proverb goes, “The axe forgets, but the tree remembers.” In that moment, I realized I had been both the axe and the tree, inflicting silence, and then living with its quiet consequences.

Because beneath every avoided conversation, every withdrawal, every silence we justify, there is usually something deeper at play. Not logic. Not wisdom. But protection; a kind of instinctive self-preservation. Like a tortoise retreating into its shell at the slightest disturbance, we withdraw, not always because the danger is real, but because it once was. And the body, faithful as it is flawed, remembers.

We like to believe we are rational beings. That we step back because it is the “mature” thing to do. That silence means we are choosing peace. But sometimes, silence is not peace; it is fear, well-behaved, and socially acceptable, it is fear dressed in the language of composure. Fear that if we speak, we will be misunderstood. Fear that if we open up, we will be hurt again. Fear that if we confront the issue, we may not like what we discover. And so, like sailors avoiding a storm, we change course forgetting that some destinations can only be reached by passing through rough waters.

So we retreat. We avoid the conversation. We rehearse explanations in our heads instead of saying them out loud. We convince ourselves that “it’s not that deep.” But it is. Because what we refuse to address does not disappear. Instead, it distorts. Like water trapped behind a dam, unspoken truths gather pressure. And pressure, left unattended, does not dissolve. It breaks.

In the absence of clarity, the mind becomes a storyteller. And not an honest one. It fills in the gaps with assumptions, often shaped by old wounds and silent insecurities. We begin to interpret silence as rejection, distance as disinterest, pauses as proof of something deeper and darker. When we do not communicate, we give our fears permission to interpret reality on our behalf. We respond not to what is true but to what feels true, and those are not always the same.

Sometimes, we are protecting ourselves. Experience has taught us that vulnerability can be expensive. So we ration it. We become careful, measured, and controlled. We choose distance over exposure, silence over risk, and composure over honesty. Like someone who has once been burned, we no longer touch the fire even when we need its warmth.

Other times, we convince ourselves we are protecting the other person. We say, “I don’t want to hurt them.” “I don’t want to complicate things.” “I don’t want to start something I cannot finish.” But even that protection, when examined closely, often carries the fingerprints of fear. Fear of their reaction. Fear of conflict. Fear of loss. An African proverb says, “When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside can not hurt you.” Yet many of the battles we avoid are not external. They are internal reckonings we are not ready to face.

So we carry unspoken truths in the name of care. We become emotional misers, withholding what should be shared. And slowly, quietly, connection begins to erode. Not dramatically, not all at once, but like a rope fraying strand by strand, until one day, it no longer holds.

Because intimacy does not only die in loud arguments. Sometimes, it fades in quiet avoidance. In the conversations we keep postponing. In the truths we keep diluting. In the distance we keep pretending not to notice. As Søren Kierkegaard observed, “The greatest hazard of all, losing one’s self, can occur very quietly in the world, as if it were nothing at all.” And so too, we lose each other not in chaos, but in silence.

Until one day, we look across the space between us and realize it has grown wider than we remember. And we cannot quite explain when it happened, only that it did.

But what if we chose differently? What if, instead of asking, “How do I avoid this?” we asked, “What is this trying to reveal?” What if discomfort was not something to escape, but something to listen to? Like a teacher whose lessons are rarely gentle, but always necessary.

Because on the other side of discomfort is clarity not the kind we assume, but the kind we arrive at together. Clarity that dismantles illusion. Clarity that replaces suspicion with understanding. Clarity that allows us to see not just the situation, but each other fully, honestly, without distortion.

And from clarity comes understanding, that fragile, sacred bridge between two people. The kind that does not come from guessing, but from knowing. As Martin Buber wrote, all real living is meeting. And meeting requires presence. It requires truth.

The conversation may be hard. It may be messy. It may not unfold the way you hoped. But it will be real. And truth, even when uncomfortable, is kinder than confusion. It is steadier than assumption. It is lighter than the burden of carrying what was never spoken.

So the next time you feel yourself pulling away, pausing before you speak, choosing silence over honesty, ask yourself: What am I really protecting? And what might it cost me if I don’t speak? Because not every silence is safe, and not every distance is peace.

Then, if you can, choose the conversation. Choose it not because it is easy, but because it is necessary. Choose it because, as another proverb reminds us, “The truth may be bitter, but it is better than a lie sweetened with silence.”

Clarity, closeness, and understanding have never lived on the side of avoidance. They have always been waiting, quietly, patiently, on the other side of courage.