The Silence Before the Storm
One of the earliest lessons I absorbed growing up was that conflict was something to be avoided whenever possible. Disagreement wasn’t necessarily wrong, but it was uncomfortable — almost like stepping into a room where the air suddenly felt heavier. I remember school situations where two classmates clearly had tension, yet neither addressed it directly. Instead, a teacher, a mutual friend, or even a parent would step in as an intermediary. Silence wasn’t emptiness; it was strategy.
What later struck me was how familiar this emotional pattern felt when I watched many East Asian films and dramas. The build-up of restraint, the polite surface, and then the sudden emotional release appeared again and again on screen. In Squid Game, tension simmers quietly long before confrontation explodes. In Beef, created by Lee Sung Jin and starring Ali Wong, the entire story revolves around bottled frustration that finally erupts after being ignored for too long. Even in Chinese cinema, films like Strangers When We Meet featuring Fan Wei portray characters who endure emotional pressure quietly before reaching a breaking point.
These stories resonated with me because they mirrored real social behavior I had seen. The intention behind silence is often harmony — protecting relationships from immediate damage. But the paradox is that when feelings remain unspoken for too long, the eventual release can be far more intense than a calm early conversation ever would have been. The storm isn’t sudden; it’s simply delayed.
The Role of the Middle Person
In many situations I witnessed, bringing in a third party felt natural. It wasn’t necessarily about weakness; it was about preserving dignity and avoiding direct embarrassment. The middle person acted like a buffer, translating emotions into softer language and allowing both sides to step back without losing face.
There was comfort in that system. It protected relationships from immediate rupture. But it also created distance. Sometimes the original parties never fully expressed what they actually felt, leaving misunderstandings partially resolved. The surface became calm, but the foundation remained slightly uneven — like smoothing a wrinkle without ironing it out.
A Different Rhythm in Canada
Years later, living and working in Canada introduced me to a noticeably different rhythm. Conflict here often began with scheduling — a small but meaningful gesture. Instead of confronting someone impulsively, people might say, “Can we talk about this tomorrow?” That simple sentence created space for preparation rather than reaction.
What surprised me most was the structure of these conversations. Many began with acknowledgment or appreciation before moving into the issue itself. Compliments weren’t flattery; they were tone-setters. Then came the gap — what wasn’t working, what needed adjustment — followed by a focus on solutions rather than blame. It felt almost like a shared framework rather than a personal battle.
Compromise as a Practical Outcome
Another subtle difference was how compromise was perceived. In many of the environments I experienced growing up, compromise sometimes felt like quiet surrender — something to avoid unless absolutely necessary. In Canada, compromise often appeared as a practical landing point rather than a defeat.
Not every conversation ended with a perfect win–win scenario, but there was an understanding that partial alignment was still progress. The emphasis was less on preserving pride and more on preserving functionality. Even when disagreement remained, the dialogue itself often reduced tension because both sides felt heard.
Stories That Shifted My Perspective
I remember one workplace moment in Canada when a colleague requested a meeting over a small project disagreement. I expected confrontation. Instead, the conversation began with appreciation for the work already done, followed by a calm explanation of what could be improved. By the end, we hadn’t fully agreed on every detail, but we had reached a workable compromise. I left the room surprised at how little emotional residue remained.
That experience contrasted sharply with earlier memories where unresolved tension lingered silently for weeks. The structured dialogue didn’t eliminate conflict; it transformed its texture. The difference wasn’t the absence of disagreement — it was the presence of method.
Between Harmony and Directness
Living between these two approaches gradually reshaped how I handle conflict myself. Avoidance can protect relationships in the short term, but prolonged silence often amplifies misunderstanding. Directness, when delivered without empathy, can feel harsh. The balance lies somewhere in the middle — acknowledging the issue early, choosing the right moment, and framing the conversation around solutions rather than accusations.
What I’ve come to appreciate is that conflict itself isn’t the problem; unmanaged conflict is. Harmony built on suppression is fragile, while harmony built on respectful dialogue is resilient.
What Stays With Me
Looking back, both environments taught valuable lessons. The culture of avoidance highlighted the importance of emotional awareness and preserving dignity. The culture of structured discussion highlighted the importance of clarity and mutual progress.
Today, I see conflict less as a threat and more as a crossroads. One path delays the conversation and risks escalation later. The other path opens dialogue and risks temporary discomfort but often leads to resolution. Neither path is perfect, but the ability to choose consciously — to combine empathy with openness — has become the most practical skill of all.
In the end, handling conflict isn’t about choosing silence or confrontation. It’s about transforming tension into understanding without losing respect along the way — learning when to speak, when to listen, and how to let the storm pass before it ever needs to arrive.
