The Violence of Casual Words

I saw my childhood friend standing on the other side of the road. We were meeting after almost two years.

We both started walking towards each other hurriedly. We wanted to hug already. We had missed each other so much.

The moment she saw me, she said,

“Hey, you’ve become rounder!”

My heart sank.

I couldn’t say anything. I laughed, even though there was no joke to laugh at.

If you pause for a moment, this probably reminds you of something familiar. Of how normal it is for us to comment on people’s bodies. How casually we highlight things that someone lives with every single day. We have played both these roles, many times in our lives.

Acne. Pigmentation. Weight gain or loss. Greying hair. Balding head. Wrinkles. 

The list goes on.

What’s common about this list is that most of these things are not fully within someone’s control. They can’t be fixed overnight. They are constantly noticed, constantly judged, sometimes even by strangers. And you can almost always tell these are the very things someone already feels conscious about.

Society makes sure you know when you don’t meet its standards. And sometimes, it does the opposite, it praises you excessively when you do. You can feel insecure for not fitting in, and strangely, insecure even when you fit in too well. As if having good skin, or the “right” body, itself becomes something to be evaluated. You are always under prying eyes.

The point is not whether a feature is considered good or bad. The point is this: if something is already costing someone their peace of mind, then as a thoughtful human being, it’s important to stop commenting on it, as your sole right and responsibility to.

A big no to unsolicited advice.

A bigger no to pointing it out in public spaces.

And an even bigger no if it’s the first thing you say to someone you haven’t met in a long time.

Even if you believe you have an expert solution, pause. 

Ask yourself – did they ask you? And if you genuinely want to help, ask for permission first. Make sure you are offering care, not discomfort.

Don’t tell them how easy it is unless you can fix it in a minute.

Don’t tell them to ignore it, because they already can’t.

And if you feel an urge to share your opinion anyway, take it to the restroom. Say it to yourself in the mirror. Just because you have the ability to express doesn’t mean others owe you the emotional labour of listening to it.

Now comes the more responsible and empathetic part.

Without feeling loved despite their perceived flaws, people never feel safe enough to do something for themselves. 

Safety is what allows growth, not shame. If the growth is made under pressure, then it leads to dissociation from your true self.

You are not living then for yourself, you are performing for others. 

And performers need a break too. You are you, not a performer, born to just get praises from others.

The most meaningful thing we can offer another human being is the assurance that they are worthy of happiness as they are.

When people feel safe, something softens inside them. Not because they were corrected or reminded, but because they were met without judgment. 

Safety doesn’t make people careless, it does the opposite. It gives them the space to listen to themselves, to notice what they need, and to care in ways that are self-directed rather than defensive. 

Personal change grows best in environments where dignity is protected. And when care is offered without commentary, people don’t shut down, they show up. For themselves, and eventually, for the world around them.

Something to remember:

Most people are not failing at life, they are figuring it out in real time. They are carrying things they haven’t learned how to name yet, making choices with the tools they have today, not the ones they wish they had. 

In such moments, kindness is not indulgence; it is orientation. 

When we offer support instead of scrutiny, we give people the steadiness they need to find their own footing. And perhaps that is all care really asks of us, to walk alongside others while they learn, without rushing them, correcting them, or turning their becoming into a performance.

After all the famous Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh, said once,

“Compassion is a verb.”