If you were to ask me what the most important element is in any relationship, personal or professional, I would immediately respond with the word “truth.” I believe, wholeheartedly, that we have to face truth, operate in truth and conduct ourselves with truth. And, yes, I understand that truth may be different based on our perspective, what matters to me that is that we face, claim and live in our truth.

Yet, while I am always aware of my own truth, of what resonates as reality in my core, I know that I don’t always share that truth. I realize that, despite my claims to the contrary, I am the product of my socialization. I am the absolute outcome of my mother saying “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything,” and my father’s overwhelming self consciousness about how he (and we) appeared and were perceived.

So, even with those closest to me, truth may be expressed in fragments or perhaps not at all. I have no poker face so it may show in my expression, but my words are, more often that not, locked deep inside. Of course, that does not apply to positive things or happy words. Those are easy to share and excitement and joy are open and free. But, tough conversations are ones I often have only in my head or, if I feel I must do something, I will put the words on paper or a screen. Not the best strategy I know, one that avoids the dialogue and the hurt that I neither want to cause nor feel. In reality, the hurt and anger are still there and the consequences may be both longer term and unintended.

When my brother was in college, he started dating a woman who we all found less than pleasant. She worked hard to drive a wedge between him and our family, keeping him apart from family events. He dated her for years and the moved a few hours away and bought a home together after they graduated. He, always so loving and family-oriented, became increasingly disconnected. When our mother was dying, the woman did not want him to visit and both our parents were devastated. I could not pick up the phone, close as he and I had always been. I wrote him a letter and expressed (likely too strongly) about this woman and the way she was impacting our family.

We never discussed the letter but he did come to visit once before Mom died and he and I were able to connect, at least at the moment. It was less than a week later when she died and my brother and his significant other made the five hour drive. The woman refused to come into the funeral home for the funeral and did not step out of the car at the gravesite. When we adjourned to our aunt’s house for the shiva, my brother left within an hour, telling us that “she” had to get back. We never saw her and, while it didn’t occur to me then, later I was certain that her rejection of all of us was due to those words I had written and mailed.

After several years, when he ended the relationship with her, the closeness we had always had was restored. But we never talked about the way I had handled it and we never resolved it, never said the words we should have said to put it to rest. I wish I had told him that I was sorry, that I should have spoke with him directly, that what I chose to do likely made everything worse. But that conversation never happened and he is not here to have it, no matter how much I wish it to be so.

I will tell you what I think. I will tell you how I feel about something. But the tough stuff, the deep emotional and difficult truth, is behind a lot of locked doors. I know what’s there, I recognize it all. I also recognize that there is merit to sharing it, to being that straightforward and truthful. Perhaps one day I will learn to overcome those ingrained lessons, that enduring socialization, and allow those doors to open and fill my full heart.