"We tried to offer our experience to one another. Not claiming something: offering something." (Ursula K. Le Guin, Bryn Mawr Commencement Address, 1986)
Recently, I replaced an assistant (a role that involves supporting the trainer) for a day in an in-person introductory Nonviolent Communication (NVC) course. [NVC is a communication approach developed by Marshall Rosenberg that emphasises empathy, honesty, and understanding that helps deepen connections and resolve conflicts by focusing on understanding feelings and meeting needs.] This served my desire to learn, connect, and contribute to something I care about. Alongside the inspiration I took from the trainer’s approach, there was a moment from that day that I now carry with me as a precious takeaway for sharing NVC in the future and in the way I aim to live it day-to-day. A moment of expressing frustration and being received with compassion, which lead to relief and connection.
It was an experience of learning to trust my voice when navigating frustration, honesty and vulnerability, the key themes I’d like to reflect on in this text. Although I’m scared of the vulnerability of sharing my experience, I do so with the desire to be seen and the hope that it might inspire and bring a sense of togetherness to those who might resonate.
Here’s what happened.
During one of our group exercises, I found myself in a small group with a participant who was deeply familiar with NVC and the trainer’s community, someone who could just as easily have been an assistant. The exercise was structured with each group having an assistant to guide the flow, and when he joined my group, things got tricky in my thoughts.
At one point, he made a suggestion that shifted the focus of the exercise. I sensed we'd already used up more than half of our time, and I could feel myself tensing up—was I the only one who wanted to stick with the original focus? Should I let him take the lead? I felt stuck, caught between wanting to follow the exercise and questioning my own experience, not finding my sense of safety in my role as an assistant in the group.
Eventually, I voiced my concern about the change in focus and suggested we return to the exercise to move through the learning step by step.
The day went by, and I felt that same sense of tension come up whenever he spoke in the larger group. I had a desire to address this with him, but I didn’t find the inner clarity, courage, and right moment to approach him. At the end of the day, when I understood he stayed for the assistant circle, I felt frustrated.
When we gathered, I had the chance to share what was alive in me. I expressed my worry about creating hurt, my desire to experiment with honesty in a trusted space, and eventually, my accumulated tension. I tried to focus on observations (what I noticed without evaluation) and unmet needs driving the feeling of frustration and I was received with empathy. It was during the assistant circle that I realised my frustration stemmed from an unmet need for clarity around roles.
Standing up for myself, and his openness and capacity to hear my needs both helped create a sense of safety and being heard. I recognise how meaningful it was to have my honesty received with empathy. At the end of the day, instead of walking away with that bottled-up frustration, I’d had a chance to address it directly with him and be welcome in my expression, to find relief and resolution with the person instead of carrying unresolved resentment.
Reflecting on this, I realise part of why I feel safe and relaxed in my close relationships—like with my mom, siblings, and childhood friends—is because I allow myself to express unpleasant emotions without filtering, “sugarcoating" or staying with them for days. There’s no lingering frustration or resentment around them as I trust they can hold my expression and I will still belong. Not holding back, not “microdosing” the poison of repressed frustration over time. That freedom—to express without fear—feels deeply relaxing.
I also want to hold compassion—for myself and others—for how challenging it can be to follow this intention. Even in an NVC environment, where I trust we hold a shared commitment to welcome honesty and hear each other in the beauty of our needs, I felt scared to speak up. In everyday life, outside of such intentional spaces, where we have to face the discomfort of stepping out of our safety zones, finding this resolution can often feel even harder.
In the assistant circle, I felt held by the shared commitment to empathy and honesty. The experience affirmed how supportive emotional safety and mutual openness are for me when expressing frustration and unmet needs. How can I cultivate this same sense of trust and connection in spaces where it doesn’t feel naturally present?
The insights I took from the NVC course resurfaced for me recently, reminding me how challenging it can be to hold space for honesty in less intentional environments like big family gatherings.
In these gatherings, I often feel tense, struggling to balance my needs for calm and connection with maintaining “peace” in the group. Mourning the pain my honesty might bring can feel overwhelming, something I’m often not ready to face, while in other moments the tension in me might grow so big that I end up expressing myself unfiltered, through my judgements, in ways that I regret later.
For example, someone might express disappointment in a way that when hearing it, there is guilt, shame and resentment in me, or make comments about women or marginalised groups I find deeply painful to hear, which I receive with a lot of anger. These situations remind me of how much I long for trust that people in the group are prepared to hold space in ways that create safety.
Even though I dream of not holding back, of not forcing myself into roles my system resists just to uphold appearances, in these situations, I find myself stuck in old, deeply ingrained patterns. I don’t enjoy the energy of trying to convince people or arguing my opposition, yet I also struggle with the helplessness of staying silent and avoiding conflict, disconnecting from the conversation, and giving up on the chance for understanding while craving connection.
Longing for some reinforcement to navigate this, I reencountered the passage from Ursula Le Guin’s Bryn Mawr Commencement Address that I read in Space Crone. I found it resonates with NVC and my earlier experience in the course: instead of arguing on an abstract level, to offer my experience instead. As one small practical step, I’m thinking about trying to say something like, “I notice there’s something in me I’m scared to express. I’m scared it would be hard to hear, and yet I’m also worried if I keep ignoring it, I’m not able to connect to you in a way that’s authentic for me” the next time I feel stuck.
As Le Guin describes in the same text quoted above, “People crave objectivity because to be subjective is to be embodied, to be a body, vulnerable, violable.” I crave this subjectivity—offering my experience without pretence, replacing “attack” or withdrawal with honest connection. To gather the courage to express my truth, I aim to trust that being authentic can bring relief and connection—even if it’s challenging.
My dream is to embody this vulnerable honesty and create space for restorative connection in my relationships and, ultimately, to inspire and support others as they move towards the same. This is the direction I would like to have in mind, knowing that even a single moment of authenticity, of offering my experience instead of shutting down or claiming something amidst countless triggers is a step forward I want to be proud of.
Whether in intentional NVC spaces or everyday life, I see each moment of honesty as an opportunity to deepen connection. My focus now is on practising small, actionable steps to express vulnerability, trusting it will pave the way for understanding and togetherness in a shared reality.
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