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Pause and effect: Charles Assisi spent a week being completely honest. Here’s how it went

Pause and effect: Charles Assisi spent a week being completely honest. Here’s how it went

A few years ago, I read an article that said humans lie about twice every 10 minutes. I dismissed it as one of those ridiculous pieces of information designed to make us all feel guilty. It was, until I monitored myself closely for a day. It was horrible.

Does pause still work? : Jim Carrey as a lawyer who can't lie at all, for one day, in Liar Liar (1997). PRIME
Does pause still work? : Jim Carrey as a lawyer who can’t lie at all, for one day, in Liar Liar (1997).

From “Sorry, I didn’t see your call” (I saw it, looked at it, and deliberately let it ring) to “Traffic was crazy” (the roads were practically empty; I’m left incredibly late) passing by “Of course. I’ll start right away” (translation: that never happens), I realized that my life was a game of endless social gymnastics.

Most of the lies were certainly harmless, the kind intended to keep the peace or avoid embarrassment. Still, it got me thinking: What would happen if, for a week, I embraced radical honesty?

The idea stuck in my head for months. This came to light recently because of my wife. She is, to put it bluntly, a pathological truth teller. She doesn’t know how to be sincere. If you ask, “Do I look good in this shirt?” and the answer is no, she will just say no (often a little sheepishly).

It’s incredibly disarming. At the same time, I wondered how she could cross the world unscathed.

Inspired, or perhaps feeling challenged, by his approach, I decided to give it a try: no little lies, sugar-coatings or convenient omissions, for a week. Just sincerity, all the time.

The first day started with minor chaos. An acquaintance asked me: “What do you think of my new haircut?” » Normally, I would have politely responded, “That sounds great!” “. Instead, I heard myself say, “Honestly, this doesn’t look good on you.”

The silence that extended seemed like it could be measured in geologic time.

Blurring, I added: “Your audacity is admirable! Was this another false pass? Was it even sincere? I still don’t know. What I do know is that I burned my bridges a bit.

By the third day, the bridges were on fire everywhere. I had admitted to dropping the ball on the things I had committed to doing; offered no soothing excuses for not showing up. By mid-week, I was emotionally exhausted from the stress of it all.

Radical honesty is not for the faint-hearted. It’s like ripping off all the social band-aids at once. Of course, people don’t always want the truth. They want to feel seen, understood and, sometimes, flattered.

By day four, the energy it took to navigate the emotional mines left me wondering if I had made a mistake trying. Was the abstract virtue of complete honesty really worth all this discomfort?

That’s when I remembered something else I’d read once, about a tactic called the perfect break. The idea is simple but profound: instead of rushing to fill in the gaps in the conversation, we let others speak the essentials. In the silences, we simply wait. More often than not, the other person will fill the void. In this way, in fact, we begin to reach new levels of sincerity and depth, even in informal conversations.

By the fifth day, I had decided to give it a try.

When a friend came to me with a mediocre idea, instead of sharing my most sincere thoughts, I let the silence drag on. They filled it out themselves, refining the idea as they went. In the end, they had a better idea on hand and I ended up looking like some sort of visionary listener.

The perfect break has also worked wonders at home. When my daughter asked me, “Are you mad at me,” I paused. She immediately started confessing things that I didn’t even know happened. Apparently silence is an accidental lie detector.

By the end of the week, I had learned two things. First of all, radical honesty is not for me. It’s too intense and confrontational. Second, the perfect break gives almost the same results, with much less drama.

Now, when faced with awkward conversations or moments of doubt, I simply wait. It’s not as flashy as being a radical truth-teller, but it’s much more sustainable.

Can this work with direct questions? I haven’t discovered yet. Maybe if I had used the perfect pause, the young man with the new haircut would have told me what he really thought about it. Better luck to both of us next time.

(Charles Assisi is co-founder of Founding Fuel. He can be contacted at [email protected])