Why We Avoid Difficult Talk: A Psychoanalytic and Relational Perspective
Difficult conversations are an integral part of human relationships. Yet, many of us find ourselves hesitating—even resisting—when faced with the need to address uncomfortable topics. Whether it is confronting a friend about a misunderstanding, telling a partner how they hurt us, or discussing failures with a mentor, these moments evoke a range of emotions that compel us to avoid rather than engage. This avoidance isn’t merely about discomfort; it is deeply rooted in our psyche, shaped by unconscious fears, relational dynamics, and ingrained patterns of behavior.
From a psychoanalytic and relational perspective, the reasons behind our avoidance of difficult conversations reveal profound truths about our inner worlds and interpersonal connections. Understanding these dynamics can provide not only insight but also a pathway toward more authentic relationships and personal growth.
The Role of Unconscious Fear
Psychoanalysis teaches us that much of human behavior is governed by unconscious processes. When it comes to difficult conversations, one of the most potent forces at play is unconscious fear. This fear can manifest in several ways:
Fear of Rejection: At its core, humans are social beings, wired to seek connection and belonging. Pschoanalysts described how early attachment experiences shape our need for acceptance. Difficult conversations, however, often involve expressing vulnerability or challenging another’s actions—both of which carry the risk of rejection. Even if the threat is imagined, the psyche interprets it as a danger to the self, prompting avoidance.
Fear of Conflict: For many, conflict represents a destabilizing force. Carl Jung, in his exploration of the shadow self, noted how individuals often project their unwanted or negative emotions onto others. This can make us hesitant to confront those emotions, fearing that a difficult talk will escalate into irreparable discord.
Fear of Exposure: Difficult conversations often require us to admit personal flaws, failures, or insecurities. The psychoanalytic concept of defense mechanisms, such as denial or repression, helps explain why we shy away from these admissions. Protecting our self-image can feel more important than pursuing truth or resolution.
Early Attachment and Its Legacy
Relational perspectives, particularly those informed by attachment theory, offer additional insights. Our experiences with caregivers shape how we approach emotional vulnerability and conflict. For instance:
Secure Attachment: Individuals with secure early attachments are more likely to approach difficult conversations with confidence and trust. They see conflict as a normal, manageable aspect of relationships.
Insecure Attachment: Those with insecure attachments (whether avoidant, anxious, or disorganized) may struggle more. Avoidantly attached individuals might dismiss the need for the conversation altogether, telling themselves, “It’s not worth it.” Anxiously attached individuals, on the other hand, might ruminate on the potential outcomes, but their fear of abandonment can make initiating the talk feel impossible.
The Relational Lens: Power and Vulnerability
From a relational standpoint, every conversation exists within a web of dynamics that include power, vulnerability, and reciprocity. Difficult talks often bring these dynamics to the forefront, challenging both parties to navigate them delicately.
Power Imbalances: When one party perceives themselves as having less power in a relationship, they may avoid confrontation out of fear that it will further reinforce their subordinate position. For example, a student might hesitate to tell a teacher about unfair treatment, or an employee might avoid discussing workload concerns with a boss.
Reluctance to Appear Vulnerable: Vulnerability is a cornerstone of meaningful relationships, but it also exposes us to potential hurt. Brené Brown, a researcher on vulnerability and courage, writes, “Vulnerability is the birthplace of connection and the path to the feeling of worthiness. If it doesn’t feel vulnerable, the sharing is probably not constructive.” However, our relational instincts often equate vulnerability with weakness, leading us to avoid situations where we feel emotionally exposed.
Fear of Losing Control: Difficult conversations require emotional honesty, which can sometimes make us feel as though we are losing control over how we are perceived. Psychoanalysis highlights the human tendency to resist relinquishing control over our narratives, even when doing so might foster growth.
Social and Cultural Conditioning
Beyond individual psychology and relational dynamics, societal and cultural norms also shape our tendencies to avoid difficult conversations.
Cultural Norms Around Politeness: In many cultures, there is a strong emphasis on maintaining harmony and avoiding direct confrontation. The concept of “saving face” can discourage people from engaging in talks that might lead to embarrassment or shame, for themselves or others.
Gendered Expectations: Gender roles can further complicate matters. For instance, men may be conditioned to avoid emotionally charged conversations because they are taught to prioritize stoicism over vulnerability. Women, on the other hand, might hesitate to engage in difficult talks for fear of being labeled as “too emotional” or “overreacting.”
Individualism vs. Collectivism: In individualistic societies, people may avoid difficult conversations because of an underlying fear of jeopardizing personal autonomy. In collectivist cultures, the concern often lies in disrupting group harmony.
Avoidance as a Learned Coping Mechanism
From a psychoanalytic perspective, avoidance of difficult conversations can also be understood as a learned coping mechanism. When faced with emotional pain, the mind often seeks ways to protect itself. For instance, if an individual grew up in a household where expressing emotions led to punishment or ridicule, they may have learned to suppress confrontation as a survival strategy. Over time, this becomes an automatic response.
However, while avoidance may offer short-term relief, it often leads to long-term consequences. Unresolved issues can fester, creating resentment, misunderstanding, and emotional distance. As Carl Rogers, the founder of client-centered therapy, once said, “What is most personal is most universal.” In avoiding difficult conversations, we deny ourselves the opportunity to connect on a deeper, more human level.
Embracing the Growth Potential
At its core, a difficult conversation is an opportunity for growth—both personal and relational. As Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor and renowned psychiatrist, observed, “When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” Facing the discomfort of these talks forces us to confront not only the issue at hand but also our own fears, biases, and limitations.
In my experience as a counselor, I’ve seen how avoidance often leads to more pain than the conversation itself ever could. Students who fear telling their parents about academic struggles, for example, often suffer in silence, letting their anxiety spiral. Yet, when they muster the courage to speak, they frequently discover compassion and support that they hadn’t anticipated. Similarly, in my own relationships, the hardest conversations have often led to the deepest connections.
The truth is, avoiding difficult conversations doesn’t protect us; it isolates us. To engage in them is to embrace our shared humanity—flawed, vulnerable, and endlessly striving for connection. As the poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, “Perhaps everything terrible is, in its deepest being, something helpless that wants help from us.” Perhaps the very discomfort we fear holds the key to the understanding and closeness we seek.
Tragic Case of Atul Subhash: Why Discrediting Feminism Fails Men and Women Alike
The recent tragic suicide of Atul Subhash, who left behind a harrowing hour-long video blaming his wife and in-laws for his suffering, has sparked heated debates across India. His death has become more than a personal tragedy—it has evolved into a flashpoint for conversations around men’s mental health, familial abuse, and gender-based struggles. Yet, amid calls for justice, another troubling narrative has emerged. Many people have seized the moment to attack feminism, asserting that men suffer far more than women and that the women’s rights movement is somehow responsible for men’s struggles. This reaction reveals a deep misunderstanding of both patriarchy and feminism, turning a critical mental health crisis into a gendered blame game.
Men’s Suffering Is Real, But Not Unique
There is no denying that men suffer. Statistics show that men are more likely to die by suicide, face incarceration, and struggle with expressing vulnerability due to societal expectations. Influential figures like Jordan Peterson—whose views often seem designed to provoke rather than enlighten—frequently highlight how men disproportionately bear the brunt of certain societal pressures. Men’s issues—mental health struggles, emotional repression, and societal shame—are pressing concerns that need visibility and action.
However, framing men’s suffering as proof that women are somehow less oppressed ignores the broader context. Men are not the only victims of societal structures. Women, too, face systemic injustices, from domestic violence and workplace harassment to gender-based discrimination. Historically, women have endured a longer legacy of marginalization, making them a more vulnerable social group. This is not to diminish men’s struggles but to acknowledge the multifaceted nature of suffering.
Patriarchy Hurts Everyone
The root cause of this suffering lies in patriarchy—a system designed primarily by men but perpetuated by all genders. Patriarchy enforces rigid gender roles: men must be stoic providers while women are confined to caregiving roles. This system suppresses men’s emotional expression, leaving them isolated, while simultaneously denying women autonomy and agency.
Men’s higher suicide rates often stem from the intense shame they experience when they feel they have failed societal expectations. Similarly, women frequently grapple with guilt tied to the burdens placed upon them. These emotional patterns, though not absolute, reflect how patriarchy weaponizes emotions differently against men and women.
A recent visit to Ajmer Dargah brought this reality into sharp focus. Among the thousands of devotees seeking solace, women outnumbered men, visibly burdened by emotional and psychological struggles. Many women knelt in prayer, eyes glistening with tears, their postures heavy with unseen burdens. Their presence served as a poignant reminder that mental health issues transcend gender. Both men and women suffer—albeit often in different ways—and both deserve compassion and support.
The Fallacy of Discrediting Feminism
The backlash against feminism following Atul’s death reveals a deeper societal misunderstanding. Many critics of feminism claim to advocate for men’s rights, but their arguments often devolve into gendered blame games rather than constructive conversations. Discrediting women’s struggles in the name of men’s rights does nothing to ease men’s suffering—it only deepens divisions.
True advocacy for men’s mental health requires dismantling the very structures feminism seeks to change. Feminism is not about denying men’s pain; it’s about creating a world where no one is confined by outdated gender expectations.
Moving Forward
Atul’s death should be a wake-up call—not a battleground for ideological wars but an opportunity to address mental health and dismantle patriarchal norms. Justice for Atul means more than punishing those directly responsible; it means creating a society where men can express vulnerability without shame and women can live without fear.
Blaming feminism for men’s suffering is a simplistic and harmful response. Genuine concern for men’s rights must involve advocating for systemic changes that benefit everyone—changes that feminism has long championed. True justice will come not from dividing genders but from building a world where all can thrive, free from the constraints of patriarchy.
Addressing men’s mental health requires collective effort. This includes better mental health services, reducing societal stigma, and fostering supportive communities. It means challenging harmful stereotypes, supporting emotional literacy from an early age, and recognizing that strength comes from vulnerability. Men, women, and all genders suffer under patriarchy in different ways. Recognizing this interconnected struggle is the first step toward meaningful change.
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Why You Should Not Always Be a “Good” Child?
In today’s world, where mental health awareness is on the rise, discussions about emotional well-being often overlook the pressures tied to being a “good child.”From childhood, being a “good” child is presented as the highest virtue. Parents, teachers, and society often praise children who are well-behaved, responsible, and emotionally self-sufficient. These children avoid conflict, fulfill expectations, and rarely make trouble. But behind this socially valued image lies a complex psychological narrative that psychoanalysis and relational theories have explored for decades. Being “good” all the time is not a sign of emotional well-being—it can be a survival strategy rooted in emotional suppression, unresolved trauma, and a distorted sense of self. It can shape a person’s identity and affect mental health outcomes.
The Hidden Reality of the “Good” Child
Being labelled a “good child” is often tied to family dynamics. Good children are often thought of as “easy” because they don’t demand much. They are seen as mature, selfless, and dependable. However, what appears as maturity may actually be emotional over-adaptation—a response to unstable, emotionally unavailable, or overly demanding caregiving environments. They learn that expressing negative emotions like anger, frustration, or sadness might disrupt fragile family dynamics or result in rejection.
From a psychoanalytic perspective, this kind of adaptation stems from early relational experiences. When caregivers are unable to tolerate the emotional complexity of a child, the child learns to suppress their needs and feelings to maintain the caregiver’s stability. This survival mechanism helps preserve attachment but comes at the cost of the child’s emotional authenticity. Donald Winnicott, a key figure in psychoanalysis, called this adaptation the formation of a “false self”—a socially acceptable version of oneself that hides true emotional experiences.
Becoming the Parent’s Emotional Caregiver
Many good children unconsciously become emotional caregivers to their parents. This is especially common when parents are depressed, anxious, or dealing with unresolved trauma. For example., a child with a depressed parent might become overly responsible. The child senses that their emotional outbursts or expressions of need might overwhelm the parent, so they suppress these impulses. They become caretakers instead—providing emotional stability in a way that no child should ever have to.
In such cases, being “good” is not a choice but a psychological necessity. It is driven by the belief that “if I stay quiet, helpful, and perfect, things will be okay.” They carry this belief into adulthood, often assuming responsibility for others’ emotions, which leads to their emotional neglect. This pattern is deeply relational and shapes how they approach friendships, romantic relationships, and even professional roles.
The Emotional Cost of Being “Good”
Being perpetually “good” can lead to significant emotional consequences. These individuals may struggle with anxiety, depression, and feelings of emptiness later in life. Their emotional world can feel muted, as though they are always living on autopilot, fulfilling obligations but rarely feeling truly alive. They may excel academically or professionally but struggle with self-worth.
One of the most damaging effects is the internalization of perfectionism. Good children learn that making mistakes or being difficult threatens their relationships. As adults, they may hold themselves to impossible standards, striving for excellence in every area while feeling perpetually inadequate. They become hyper-responsible, assuming that their worth is tied to what they can offer others.
Another common outcome is difficulty with boundaries. Good children grow up believing that saying “no” is selfish or hurtful leading to constant people-pleasing. They feel responsible for others’ well-being and struggle to assert their needs, fearing rejection or conflict. This can result in one-sided relationships where they give far more than they receive, leaving them emotionally drained and resentful.
The Need for Emotional Healing
Healing from the legacy of being a good child involves reclaiming emotional authenticity and developing a more integrated sense of self. This process often begins with recognizing that being “good” was a survival strategy, not a personality trait. It was a way of navigating a relational environment that could not tolerate emotional complexity.
Therapeutic work can play a crucial role in this process. In therapy, individuals can explore the roots of their good-child patterns, process unresolved emotional pain, and begin to reclaim the parts of themselves that were suppressed. They can learn to tolerate emotions like anger and sadness without fearing abandonment.
Developing a “true self,” as Winnicott described, involves learning to express needs, set boundaries, and accept one’s imperfections. It means embracing the full range of human emotions, not just the socially acceptable ones. It also requires redefining relationships—not as spaces where perfection is demanded but as spaces where authenticity is possible.
Moving Beyond the “Good” Child Role
Breaking free from the “good” child role is not about becoming rebellious or self-centered. It’s about embracing the complexity of being human—imperfect, emotional, and relational. It means understanding that being loved does not require being perfect and that expressing genuine emotions is not a threat but a gateway to deeper, more meaningful connections.
The journey out of excessive compliance involves unlearning the belief that self-worth is tied to pleasing others. It is about finding balance: being kind but also assertive, being responsible but not overburdened, and caring for others while honoring one’s own needs. It means moving from being “good” to being real.
Ultimately, the work of undoing the good-child narrative is not about rejecting the values of kindness, empathy, or responsibility. It’s about recognizing that these qualities are only sustainable when they come from a place of emotional freedom, not emotional obligation. Healing means learning that you are worthy of love—not because you are good, but because you are human.
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Why Do We Always Push Ourselves Beyond Our Limits?
In today’s fast-paced world, the pressure to push ourselves beyond our limits feels almost unavoidable. From work deadlines to personal goals, the expectation to do more, achieve faster, and be better is everywhere. Social media highlights success stories, while corporate culture rewards non-stop productivity. It’s easy to fall into the trap of believing that slowing down means falling behind.
But what drives this relentless push? Is it ambition, societal pressure, or something deeper within us? Beyond the surface of daily hustle lies a psychological landscape shaped by early life experiences, societal expectations, and our need for connection and validation. Understanding why we push ourselves—and at what cost—requires exploring these forces. Why do we find it so hard to rest, to say “enough,” and to accept our limits as humans? The answer lies not just in what the world demands of us but in what we unconsciously demand from ourselves.
The Modern World’s Relationship with Limits
Our current relationship with limits is deeply influenced by modern societal values rooted in productivity and achievement. The industrial and technological revolutions, which promised to free us from toil through machines and automation, ironically reshaped how we perceive time and worth. With the rise of machine intelligence, many hoped that humanity would finally have more leisure and rest. But instead, technological progress has intensified the demand for constant availability, efficiency, and output.
What was once human is now measured in mechanical terms: output, performance, and productivity. We internalize this, seeing rest as a failure rather than a necessity. To stop or slow down feels like falling behind, as if being human—with our emotional needs, exhaustion, and limitations—is inherently flawed. In a world that runs on speed and production, being bound by human limits feels like being left behind.
The Psychological Roots of Overextension
From a psychoanalytic perspective, the compulsion to push ourselves stems from unconscious emotional drives often formed in early relationships. Our personal histories shape how we relate to success, failure, and self-worth. Many of us internalize expectations from caregivers, teachers, or societal messages, which later manifest in adult life as a need to overachieve.
For example, a child whose value was recognized only through accomplishments might grow into an adult driven by perfectionism, seeking validation through endless productivity. This adult might struggle with feelings of worthlessness unless they are constantly achieving, as though rest invalidates their existence. Similarly, someone who faced instability in early life may believe that control over work and success can compensate for earlier helplessness.
Psychoanalysis also emphasizes the role of unconscious guilt. Many people unknowingly believe they must “earn” rest or joy. They feel guilty when they are not working or accomplishing something tangible, as if stopping threatens their self-worth. This dynamic is reinforced by a society that glorifies hustle and views vulnerability or stillness as weakness.
The Relational Impact of Ignoring Limits
The consequences of ignoring personal limits extend beyond the individual, affecting relationships in profound ways. When people are constantly pushing themselves, they have little energy left for emotional intimacy or meaningful connection. They may become emotionally distant, irritable, or consumed by work, leaving partners, friends, and family feeling neglected or secondary.
Moreover, pushing beyond limits can create unconscious relational conflicts. When one partner in a relationship overworks or strives excessively, they may expect the same level of sacrifice from the other, fostering resentment or feelings of inadequacy. Relationships become transactional, based on productivity rather than emotional presence.
There is also a subtle societal competition in how people discuss being “busy” or “stressed.” It’s almost a badge of honor—a way of saying, “I’m important because I’m constantly needed.” This creates a cycle where being busy becomes a status symbol, making it even harder to honor limits without feeling left behind or insignificant.
The Need to Reclaim Our Humanity
To honor our limits is to reclaim what it means to be human. We are not machines designed for endless production; we are emotional, relational beings whose worth cannot be measured by how much we accomplish. Limits are not flaws to overcome—they are reminders that we exist within a natural rhythm of effort and rest, work and reflection, giving and receiving.
Relational psychoanalysis reminds us that healing comes from being truly seen and accepted, not for what we do but for who we are. Just as a therapist offers unconditional acceptance to a client, we must learn to extend the same compassion to ourselves. Recognizing our limits allows us to reconnect with ourselves and others from a place of authenticity, rather than performance.
In the words of psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott, “It is a joy to be hidden, and a disaster not to be found.” This statement underscores the need for rest, solitude, and being known beyond what we can produce. Allowing ourselves to be “hidden”—to pause, to breathe—doesn’t make us weak. It allows us to be found again by others and, most importantly, by ourselves.
The limits we push against are often the very boundaries that preserve our humanity. Acknowledging them doesn’t mean giving up; it means embracing the fullness of life—its highs and lows, its action and rest. We are not infinite, and that is not a limitation. It is what makes us beautifully, imperfectly human.
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Why Do We Feel Tired All the Time? A Relational Perspective
In our increasingly fast-paced world, fatigue is a common complaint. But often, chronic tiredness goes deeper than a lack of sleep or a busy schedule—it’s rooted in emotional, relational, and cultural dynamics that silently weigh us down. From a psychoanalytic and relational perspective, fatigue can be seen as the body and mind’s way of signaling an imbalance or a cry for deeper self-awareness.
Fatigue as a Mirror of Emotional States
Fatigue often reflects what we’re holding onto emotionally. Think of it as a symptom of carrying too much invisible weight—unresolved conflicts, suppressed feelings, or unspoken fears. For instance, a fear of failure might make someone overwork themselves, while avoiding rest due to guilt can lead to relentless fatigue.
Take Arjun, for example. A young father juggling a demanding job and family life, Arjun feels exhausted every day. On closer reflection, he realizes his tiredness isn’t just physical. It stems from his unresolved anxiety about providing for his family, driven by an unconscious fear of repeating his own childhood experience of financial instability.
The Cultural Context of Fatigue
In India, where interdependence often takes precedence over individual autonomy, fatigue is closely tied to cultural dynamics. Indian society places immense value on roles like being the “ideal son,” “selfless mother,” or “strong breadwinner,” leaving little room for emotional rest or personal exploration.
A recent trend among urban Indian men showcases the emotional toll of modernity and tradition colliding. For instance, men who work in corporate environments often struggle to reconcile professional aspirations with traditional family expectations. This dual pressure can leave them feeling drained, not just from physical labor but from the emotional load of navigating conflicting identities.
Relational psychoanalysts note that fatigue in such cases arises from the tension of holding two selves: the one striving for external validation and the one yearning for authenticity.
The Role of Unprocessed Trauma
Unprocessed trauma—whether big or small—plays a significant role in chronic fatigue. Relational wounds from childhood, such as feeling unseen or undervalued, often linger into adulthood. These wounds silently influence our choices and behaviors, draining our energy over time.
Consider Nisha, a successful artist who constantly feels the need to prove her worth. Her drive stems from a childhood where her achievements were the only way to gain her parents’ attention. Now, as an adult, she struggles to rest, fearing that slowing down will make her insignificant. Her fatigue is a signal of the emotional wounds that remain unhealed.
Relational Aspects of Fatigue
Relationships are meant to energize us, but when dynamics are unbalanced, they can drain us instead. A one-sided friendship, an overly critical partner, or unresolved family conflicts can leave us feeling perpetually tired.
From a relational psychoanalytic perspective, these dynamics often reflect early attachment patterns. For example, someone who grew up needing to earn affection may unconsciously recreate this dynamic in adult relationships, constantly giving but rarely receiving, which eventually leads to emotional burnout.
Kavita, a single mother, experiences this firsthand. She spends her days caring for her children and her elderly parents, but rarely asks for help. Her exhaustion stems not just from her responsibilities but from the unspoken belief that her worth is tied to how much she gives.
The Modern-Day Paradox: Always On, Never Rested
Modern technology and cultural norms have further complicated our relationship with rest. The constant ping of notifications, the pressure to stay connected, and the glorification of hustle culture create an environment where true rest feels indulgent, even irresponsible.
Ironically, the roots of this predicament can be traced back to the Enlightenment and the scientific revolutions that followed. As machine intelligence and automation began to develop, these advancements were heralded as tools to save time and simplify human labor. The hope was that humans would finally have more leisure, more opportunities for creativity, and a chance to live fuller lives. Yet, the opposite seems to have occurred. Instead of gaining time, we find ourselves running faster on a never-ending treadmill of productivity.
Machines and technology haven’t freed us; they’ve raised expectations. They’ve enabled us to work faster and longer, making us feel that rest is a luxury we can’t afford. In this always-on culture, it’s not just our time that’s being consumed but also our emotional bandwidth. The constant cycle of checking emails, responding to notifications, or scrolling social media doesn’t merely drain our time; it pulls at our emotional energy, leaving us perpetually fatigued.
This paradox highlights a critical relational dimension: how we relate to time, work, and ourselves. Are we using technology to enhance our lives, or are we letting it dictate our worth and identity? Recognizing this dynamic is crucial for reclaiming rest and redefining the balance between productivity and well-being.
Listening to Fatigue: A Path to Healing
Fatigue, when viewed through a psychoanalytic lens, is a message from the body and mind. It’s an invitation to pause and reflect on what might be out of alignment.
Acknowledging Emotional Roots: Start by exploring what your fatigue might be telling you. Are there unresolved feelings you’re avoiding? Are your relationships balanced, or do they require more emotional labor than you can give?
Setting Boundaries: Learn to protect your energy by setting limits in relationships, work, and personal commitments. This doesn’t mean shutting people out—it means recognizing what you can realistically offer without depleting yourself.
Seeking Authenticity: Reflect on whether you’re living in alignment with your true desires or adhering to societal and relational expectations at the cost of your well-being.
Professional Help: Therapy can provide a safe space to unpack these dynamics, helping you understand how past experiences and relational patterns contribute to your fatigue.
Conclusion: Fatigue as a Guide
Fatigue is not the enemy; it’s a signal. Instead of viewing it as a problem to fix, consider it an opportunity to delve deeper into the emotional and relational aspects of your life. By addressing the unspoken conflicts, unmet needs, and societal pressures that contribute to your exhaustion, you can begin to heal. In doing so, you’ll not only reclaim your energy but also foster a more authentic and fulfilling connection with yourself and others.
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