When the Conversation Isn’t Just About What’s Being Said

We’ve all been there. You're mid-sentence—calm, measured—and suddenly something changes. The air tightens. Maybe you feel your throat close slightly, or your heart speed up. The conversation has taken a turn, and though you might not be able to name what just happened, your body knows. This is no longer a simple exchange of ideas. It’s something else.

We tend to think of difficult conversations as communication breakdowns—clashes of opinion, misunderstandings, moments when tempers flare. But what if they’re actually something deeper? What if, underneath the words, we’re navigating invisible layers of conditioning, memory, and protection?

Byron Katie says that in any conversation, there are always three happening: the one between you and me, and the ones each of us is having silently in our own heads. No wonder it gets complicated. We’re not just responding to what’s being said—we’re responding to what we think is being said, to the tone we heard, the body language we interpreted, and the old fears those signals may have triggered.

And those fears? They’re not always rational. They’re ancestral. They come from moments we barely remember: being dismissed as a child, shamed in school, or left unheard in a crucial moment. Over time, these early ruptures in safety become part of our identity. We learn strategies to survive—some of us fawn, some freeze, some run, some fight. These become our personalities. And we call them things like “I’m just direct,” or “I hate conflict,” or “I’m always the peacemaker.”

But here’s the thing: these aren't personality traits. They’re protection strategies.

As physician and author Gabor Maté puts it, “You’re not overreacting. You’re overprotecting.” That tightness in your chest? That urge to correct, to shut down, to please? That’s your nervous system stepping in to defend you before you even have time to think.

What makes conversations difficult, then, isn’t just the content—it’s the collision of two nervous systems, each trying to stay safe. And because most of us were never taught to recognize these invisible patterns, we mistake them for “truth” or “just who I am.”

But it doesn’t have to stay that way.

Learning to notice your internal shift—the quickening, the clench, the story your mind starts spinning—is the first step. That’s your body waving a flag, saying, This feels familiar. This might not be safe. When we can meet that moment with curiosity rather than judgment, something incredible happens: we slow the spiral. We return to the present. We become able to listen—not just to the other person, but to ourselves.

This isn’t about getting better at debating, or memorizing scripts for conflict resolution. It’s about remembering that behind every raised voice or silent retreat is a nervous system doing its best to protect a life. Yours. Theirs. All of us, just trying to stay intact.

So the next time you find yourself mid-conversation, heart pounding, mind racing, consider this: What if this isn’t a fight? What if it’s a flashback?

What if what’s being said is only part of the story?

And what if the most powerful thing you can do isn’t to argue harder, but to soften, to listen inward—and to give yourself the safety you’ve been seeking all along?

With love & respect,

Magdalena