When Conversation Goes Off Script

There seems to be an expected “flow” to conversation. Especially in familiar moments — like saying goodbye.

We say what fits the moment. We say what helps things end well.

And yet, sometimes, what we truly feel doesn’t quite follow that flow.

At the end of last month, I said goodbye to the many people who had supported me in the UK, and returned to Japan.

Goodbyes. New beginnings. In these kinds of moments, conversations seem to move in a certain direction.

The expected flow of conversation

When I told people,

“I’ll be leaving the UK,”

they would respond:

“Oh, that’s sad… but I’m sure something wonderful is waiting for you.” “You must be excited to be back in Japan.”

Conversations naturally leaned towards something positive.

And while I was reminded that such a flow exists, this time, I found myself unable to fully go along with it.

After two years in the UK, just as life there had begun to feel truly enjoyable, what I felt most was a deep sadness — not separate from love, but born from it.

The flow of conversation shaped by the times

In familiar situations, conversations tend to follow expected paths. And there are also “flows of conversation” shaped by the times we live in.

Take the topic of work and private life.

There was a time when saying, “Work comes first,” felt natural.

And now, saying things like, “It’s about balance,” or “It’s about wellbeing,” tends to bring comfort and shared understanding.

If you go against that flow, you may confuse people, or even provoke backlash.

And yet.

In conversation, we can follow the flow, or we can choose something slightly outside of it.

A film called Nuremberg

On my flight back from the UK, I watched a film called Nuremberg. It portrays the Nuremberg Trials, where the Allied powers prosecuted leaders of Nazi Germany after the Second World War.

While the trials themselves have been subject to criticism, this recent film focuses on a psychiatrist working behind the scenes.

He was brought in from the United States to observe the psychological states of the defendants.

According to the film, the psychological analysis of leaders such as Hermann Göring played a crucial role in the trial — so much so that without it, the prosecution might not have succeeded.

In the end, the judges used this psychological data in preparing their arguments.

But the psychiatrist himself had a different intention.

He wanted to preserve these insights — not as tools to defeat the enemy, but as a way to prevent such inhuman leadership from happening again.

A voice that did not follow the flow

After the trial, he wrote and spoke publicly, trying to convey something important.

What he tried to say was this:

Göring were not monsters, but ordinary human beings, just like us.

This was just after the trial had concluded. The world had reached a kind of closure.

These people had been found guilty. They were sentenced to death. They were seen as brutal figures who deserved to disappear.

And yet, at that very moment, he said:

“From a psychological perspective, there was nothing extraordinary about them. They were ordinary people.”

Who would accept that? Who would want to hear it?

He tried to keep speaking. But no one listened.

In the end, he took his own life — using the same kind of drug that Göring had used before his execution.

What is the law for?

Why was this film made now?

I found myself thinking about that.

Just before returning to Japan, I had been spending time at my father-in-law’s house in the UK. He mentioned that he had recently begun studying law — and was finding it fascinating.

“What’s interesting about it?” I asked.

He said:

“It’s understanding the context in which each law was created.”

He added:

“Humans don’t learn from history. And because we don’t, we create systems — laws — to restrain the mistakes that keep recurring.”

Listening to him, I wondered:

Why does law feel so distant from our everyday lives?

Perhaps because we think of it this way:

There are “bad people” somewhere out there. And law exists to judge them.

We see ourselves as ordinary people. And law belongs to a different world.

“Göring was just like us”

But what if law exists not to judge “others,” but to restrain something that exists in all of us?

Seen in that light, the psychiatrist’s words — so out of step with the flow of conversation at the time — begin to feel different.

“Göring was an ordinary human being, no different from us.”

A person with ambition. With a family. With a desire to matter.

And at the same time, someone who could become indifferent to the rights — even the lives — of others.

Perhaps what he wanted to say was:

This is not about “them.” This is about something within us.

“Perhaps I am Trump too”

If that was his intention, then perhaps this film is an attempt to bring that conversation back into our time.

Because the way we speak — and what we are able to speak about — has changed.

Recently, there was a widely reported confrontation between Donald Trump and Volodymyr Zelenskyy in front of the media.

In the conversations that followed, I heard something I hadn’t expected.

“Perhaps I am Trump too.” “There may be something of him in me.”

Of course, they are public figures who appear on the front pages of newspapers.

But then I found myself asking:

What about the conversations I have with my own child?

As a parent, do I ever use my position of power to force a conclusion?

“Do you understand? Right?”

Raising my voice when things don’t resolve. Trying to impose closure through authority.

Is that really so different?

I couldn’t see it as someone else’s problem anymore.

I found myself thinking:

“Perhaps I am Trump too.”

What happens in the world often reflects what is happening within us — more than we realise.

It is not that “barbaric people” suddenly appear. It is that human barbarity becomes visible.

And perhaps we are now living in a time when such conversations are more possible than before.

What kind of conversations do we need now?

A time when even words that do not follow the expected flow can be held in conversation.

What kind of stance does that require of us?

When we sense the direction in which a conversation is moving, perhaps we can pause — just for a moment — and pay attention.

To what remains unsaid. To another side of the truth. To something uncomfortable, or unexpected.

It is not always about speaking immediately.

It may be about sensing:

When, and how, that truth might be allowed to enter the conversation.

Each person choosing their words. Their actions. Their timing.

That quiet concentration, I feel, is what allows conversations to deepen.

When I watched Matthew Bourne’s ballet, I was struck by how each movement carried both tension and freedom at once.

If we approached conversation in the same way, perhaps we could allow for more complexity.

And so, with respect for that psychiatrist — who moved against the current, like a salmon returning upstream — I find myself wondering:

What kind of conversations are we being asked to have, in this time?

Because sometimes, it is not what is being said that matters — but what remains just outside the flow of the conversation.

Until next time, I hope today you discover a new perspective on people and organisations.