Why Communication Isn’t Always Good for Relationships

Ask anyone what makes a relationship work, and chances are they’ll say: “Communication.” My students say it every semester when I pose the question in my Intimacy, Marriages and Families class. It’s almost always the first response: “Good communication.” They say it confidently, as if the word alone explains everything. But when we dig further—when we ask what kind of communication, when, and why—the picture gets more complicated.

We’re not alone in this belief. Nearly 9 out of 10 couples in a Fidelity study rated their communication as “good” or “very good.” But the same study revealed a disconnect beneath those high marks: Many partners still harbored unspoken concerns about retirement, emergency savings, and whether they could maintain the lifestyle they envisioned together. In other words, while couples believed they were communicating well, important issues often remained unresolved or only partially addressed. This gap emphasizes how communication can feel satisfying on the surface while masking greater tensions underneath—especially when it avoids discomfort or is driven more by reassurance than real understanding.

We like to believe that communicating always helps. But that’s not always true. Sometimes, communication does the opposite: It wounds, erodes trust, escalates tension, and leaves both people feeling worse. The problem isn’t the talking. It’s why and when we choose to talk.

When I watched the movie Marriage Story, it reminded me of this disconnect. Two people who loved each other very much tried to “talk it out”—to process their pain, to fix the disconnection, to understand what went wrong. But each conversation seemed to end with more hurt. There’s a particularly intense scene where an argument spirals so quickly that both characters end up screaming, crying, and saying the kind of words that linger far longer than they should. That moment isn’t fictional for many couples; it’s real. And it often happens not because people don’t communicate, but because they do so before they’re ready.

In class, I often tell my students: “Don’t start a conversation just because you feel desperate to fix something.” That desperation is the product of what I call tension. It’s an inner pressure created by two forces: the temptation to fix things quickly to relieve discomfort, and the illusion—rooted in the illusive self—that if you say just the right thing, or get your partner to, everything will return to normal. It’s the self that feels attacked or threatened—not because of what was said, but because of what it means for your image, your role, your status, or the story you’ve built about who you are.

The temptation to speak from tension is powerful because it feeds the illusion. Our illusive self—the one shaped by insecurity, fear, and the craving for validation—convinces us that immediate communication will bring relief. It insists: If they explain, you’ll finally understand. If they apologize, you’ll feel whole. If they say they care, the pain will go away. So we rush into conversation, hoping that words will fix the discomfort. But more often than not, those rushed words don’t heal, they ignite. They fuel frustration, escalate misunderstanding, and leave behind damage that presence and patience could have prevented.

Yet, ironically, communication can be most effective when we need it the least. When we’re calm, centered, and okay, we listen better. We ask with curiosity rather than accusation. We give space instead of rushing in. We recognize that a partner’s silence may not be rejection but their own processing. That’s the kind of communication that builds rather than breaks. And it’s why I often tell my students: “Talk when you’re okay. Not when you’re overwhelmed.”

But it’s not easy to do that, especially in a culture that equates speaking with intelligence and silence with weakness. From an early age, we’re taught to “participate,” to “speak up,” and to be active contributors in classrooms and meetings. In many education systems, students who remain quiet are perceived as disengaged or lacking confidence. Quiet becomes synonymous with dullness, passivity, or even incompetence. So we grow up conditioned to equate expression with worth. This pressure follows us into relationships, where we feel compelled to talk through every feeling in real time—fearing that silence means indifference or failure. But just because we’re ready to speak doesn’t mean we’re ready to connect. And sometimes, the most powerful act of communication is the decision to wait.

This conditioning makes it even harder to resist the urge to speak from tension, especially when discomfort builds. We think we’re solving the relationship, but really, we’re solving our own anxiety in the moment. And that rarely ends well.

Research supports this distinction between the quality and timing of communication. A well-known study by Gottman and Levenson (1992), which followed 73 couples over four years, measured both behavior and physiological responses during conflict and found that couples that were able to physiologically self-soothe—by pausing and calming themselves before re-engaging in conflict—were more likely to maintain stable and lasting marriages. When one partner became emotionally flooded, with elevated heart rates and stress responses, the risk of stonewalling and eventual dissolution increased.

In my own teaching, I’ve seen this resonate with students who reflect on conflicts with partners, parents, or friends. Many begin to realize that effective communication isn’t just about speaking; it’s about how we listen. And not just hearing the words, but being present with what’s being said. As one student in my research put it, “There’s a lot of listening going on in this class... But really listening and not just waiting for your turn to talk is so important. A lot of times, in my previous relationship, I felt like he was just waiting for his turn to talk and not really grasping what I was saying.” That distinction—between listening and simply waiting to respond—reveals how easy it is to perform communication without offering real understanding. When we’re not okay, we tend to listen with the intent to defend, to prove, or to fix. But when we’re grounded, we listen with compassion—and that’s when communication starts to heal.

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So what if we reframed communication not as a reflex, but as a responsibility? What if we taught ourselves and our partners to check in first—not with each other, but with ourselves? To ask: Am I okay enough to listen? Am I speaking from clarity or from chaos? What if we allowed ourselves the pause, the breath, the quiet—even if it meant waiting a few hours, a day, or longer—to return with kindness instead of urgency?

Saying the right thing starts with being the right self: the ordinary, non-defensive, present self—not the self driven by tension, fear, or illusion. That’s where real intimacy begins—not in the urgency to talk, but in the patience to understand.

Because in the end, the most powerful words we speak in our relationships aren’t the ones we rush to say. They’re the ones we’re ready to say.