Scribed In Light

There’s a question that’s been sitting with me lately—one that usually shows up only after emotions cool and perspective finally arrives:

How often do we forget who we were before we knew what we know?

Not just what we knew—but how it felt not to know.

To be unsure.
To be new.
To be standing in a trench, genuinely trying to do the right thing, while quietly wondering if you’re about to mess it all up.

Recently, I reached out to a community with a sincere question. I wasn’t asserting authority or looking for validation—I was simply seeking guidance. What I encountered instead was defensiveness, assumption, and responses to questions I hadn’t even asked.

I was left confused. Taken aback. Honestly, a little stunned—like I’d walked into the wrong room and someone had already decided my intent without ever asking me what it was.

At first, I was hot under the collar. Seething, if we’re being honest. The kind of heat where you replay conversations in your head while doing something completely unrelated—folding laundry with unnecessary intensity… or aggressively emptying the dishwasher with side-eye, like the plates themselves had opinions.

But after stepping away (and cooling off), I did what time and experience have taught me to do: I stepped outside the moment and looked for the lesson.

I asked myself two honest questions.

First: Did I not communicate clearly enough?
Could I have worded my concern or intent better?

Second: Why do spaces designed to help people sometimes respond with force instead of guidance?

Sitting with those questions—without defensiveness—shifted something in me.

What I came to understand is this: experience, when left unchecked, can harden us.

When we’ve walked a road long enough, it’s easy to forget what it felt like to stand at the trailhead. Knowledge becomes certainty. Certainty becomes confidence. And confidence—without humility—can sound like entitlement to someone who is simply looking for reassurance.

Wisdom is a gift.
But wisdom without grace can feel abrasive.
Education without empathy can feel dismissive.
Experience without humility can unintentionally shut people down.

Often, what someone is searching for isn’t correction—it’s connection. A hug. A hand on the shoulder. A voice that says, I know that trench. I’ve been there too. Let me walk with you for a bit.

True guidance doesn’t shove someone forward from behind.
It walks beside them.

It pauses before responding and asks, What does this person actually need right now? Information—or reassurance? Instruction—or compassion?

And sometimes, let’s be honest, a little humor helps. Not to make light of the situation—but to remind someone they’re human, learning, and not failing simply because they asked a question.

Without tone, presence, or relationship, it becomes far too easy to fill the gaps with assumption instead of curiosity. And that distinction matters. Curiosity asks questions. Assumptions answer without asking. Curiosity keeps the door open; assumptions slam it shut.

When someone enters a conversation armed with assumptions—especially ones that veer off course or miss the mark—it doesn’t educate anyone. It either shuts people down completely or fuels an argument. Either way, understanding is lost, and what could have been guidance becomes a hindrance.

And here’s the truth that keeps resurfacing for me:

Silence doesn’t unify anyone.
It doesn’t educate.
It doesn’t guide.
It doesn’t embrace.
It doesn’t help.

It simply leaves people alone in their trenches—unsure, unheard, and less likely to ask again.

This reflection also taught me something about being the one who asks.

For those seeking guidance, it’s okay to name your vulnerability. It’s okay to say, I’m new. I’m unsure. I’m trying to do the right thing. Confidence doesn’t always mean having answers—it often means being honest enough to ask.

The more I sat with all of this, the more I realized this isn’t just about one interaction—it’s about how we communicate as a society.

We live in a time where communication is constant, yet connection feels scarce. So much of our interaction happens through screens—posts, comments, texts. I’m guilty of it too. Texting feels easier. Safer. You can pause, disengage, or quietly exit a conversation when things feel uncomfortable.

But that convenience comes at a cost.

And just to be clear—this isn’t a call to abandon progress or toss out the tools that genuinely help us. I’m not about to throw away my mixer and start hand-mixing everything out of principle, especially with arthritis reminding me daily that technology can be a gift. Progress matters. Tools matter. Advancement matters.

What I’m questioning isn’t the technology that enables us to go higher or further—but the kind that quietly erodes our ability to communicate, connect, and remain compassionate with one another. Communication is the vital link. And when that link is missing, a lot of things hit the fan—relationships, understanding, unity, grace.

Somewhere along the way, we traded presence for convenience—and humanity is paying the price.

Which makes me wonder… what happened to the days when people met for a cup of coffee and a slice of pie? When conversation didn’t need a screen, an audience, or a quick escape. When you sat across from someone long enough to hear tone, see expression, ask follow-up questions, and laugh mid-sentence.

So consider this a gentle invitation—maybe even a small challenge.

Put the phone down a little more often.
Close a few tabs.
Shut the laptop.

And choose one real conversation.

Meet for coffee. Share a piece of pie. Sit beside someone. Look them in the eye. Ask a question—and stay long enough to hear the answer.

No fixing. No debating. No assumptions.

Just presence.

Because curiosity still builds bridges. Grace still opens doors. And real conversation—slow, imperfect, human conversation—is something this world desperately needs again.

If nothing else, let this be a reminder: the goal isn’t to win a conversation. It’s to walk away with connection still intact.

And sometimes, that starts with coffee… and pie.

---

“Most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply.” —Stephen R. Covey

“Everyone needs to be valued. Everyone has the potential to give something back.” —Princess Diana

With grace, curiosity, laughter, compassion for where we’ve been, hope for how we speak going forward—and a standing invitation for coffee and pie,
—Tina N. Campbell | Scribed in Light