Pause and effect: Charles Assisi spent a week being totally honest. Here’s how it went
‘The experience was brutal, stressful – and devastating to others,’ Assisi says. ‘On Day Four, I discovered a cure. Here’s how to use the perfect pause.’
Some years ago, I read a factoid that said humans lie about twice every 10 minutes. I dismissed it as one of those ridiculous tidbits designed to make us all feel guilty. That was, until I watched myself closely for a day. It was horrifying.
From “Sorry, I didn’t see your call” (I saw it, stared at it, and deliberately let it ring out) to “Traffic was insane” (the roads were virtually empty; I just set out insanely late) to “Of course. I’ll get started on this right away” (translation: never happening), I realised my life was an endless game of social gymnastics.
Most of the lies were admittedly harmless, the kind meant to keep the peace or avoid awkwardness. Still, it got me thinking: What would happen if, for one week, I embraced radical honesty?
The idea dwelt in my mind for months. It bubbled to the surface recently because of my wife. She is, to put it straight, a pathological truth-teller. She does not know how to be insincere. If you ask, “Do I look good in this shirt?” and the answer is no, she’ll simply say, no (often a bit sheepishly).
It is maddeningly disarming. At the same time, I have wondered how she walks through the world unscathed.
Inspired, or perhaps feeling challenged, by her approach, I decided to give it a try: No little white lies, sugar-coating or convenient omissions, for one week. Just sincerity, all the time.
Day One began with minor chaos. An acquaintance asked, “What do you think of my new haircut?” Normally, I would have mustered a polite “Looks great!”. Instead, I heard myself say, “Honestly, it doesn’t look good on you.”
The silence that stretched out felt like it could be measured in geological time.
Scrambling, I added, “Your boldness is admirable!” Was that another faux pass? Was it even sincere? I still don’t know. What I do know is that I burnt a bit of a bridge there.
By Day Three, bridges were aflame all over the place. I had admitted to dropping the ball on things I had committed to doing; offered no placatory excuses for failing to show up. By midweek, I was emotionally spent from the stress of it all.
Radical honesty isn’t for the faint-hearted. It’s like ripping off every social Band-Aid at once. People don’t always want the truth, of course. They want to feel seen, understood and, occasionally, flattered.
By Day Four, the energy it took to navigate the emotional landmines left me wondering if I’d made a mistake by even trying. Was the abstract virtue of total honesty really worth all this discomfort?
That’s when I remembered something else I’d once read, about a tactic called the perfect pause. The idea is simple yet profound: instead of rushing to fill gaps in conversation, one lets others do most of the talking. In the silences, one simply waits. More often than not, the other person will fill the gap. In this way, in fact, one begins to reach new levels of sincerity and depth, even in casual conversations.
By Day Five, I had decided to give this a shot.
When a friend pitched a mediocre idea to me, instead of offering my sincerest thoughts, I let the silence stretch out. They filled it themselves, refining the idea as they went along. By the end, they had a better idea at hand, and I ended up seeming like some kind of visionary listener.
The perfect pause worked wonders at home too. When my daughter asked, “Are you mad at me”, I paused. She immediately started confessing things I didn’t even know had happened. Apparently, silence is an accidental lie-detector.
By the end of the week, I had learned two things. First, radical honesty isn’t for me. It’s too intense and confrontational. Second, the perfect pause gets almost the same results, with far less drama.
Now, when faced with tricky conversations or moments of doubt, I simply wait. It’s not as flashy as being a radical truth-teller, but it is far more sustainable.
Can it work with direct questions? I have yet to find out. Perhaps if I’d used the perfect pause, the young man with the new haircut would have told me what he really thought of it. Better luck to us both, next time.
(Charles Assisi is co-founder of Founding Fuel. He can be reached on assisi@foundingfuel.com)
Recommended Topics