Fact Check Me: The Stuff We Were Supposed to Say
We used to teach kids what to say.
Not opinions.
Not identity.
Not branding.
Just words.
“Hello.”
“How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Do you want to play?”
And somehow we decided that was childish.
At some point, we trained warmth out of people.
We taught them that politeness was fake, that sympathy was awkward, that small talk was beneath them. We replaced simple language with irony, guardedness, and over-interpretation — and then we acted surprised when everyone started feeling isolated.
That cliché stuff?
It wasn’t meaningless.
It was social infrastructure.
“Hello” means I see you.
“How are you?” means I care enough to ask.
“I’m fine” means I’m not in danger.
“Want to play?” means I’m open — you’re welcome here.
Kids weren’t being naive on the playground.
They were being direct. Efficient. Human.
Somewhere along the way, we made sympathy embarrassing.
We whisper, rush, or soften it like it’s intrusive.
But when you say, “I’m so sorry for your loss” — and you mean it — you’re not inserting yourself into someone’s pain. You’re standing beside it.
You’re saying:
I understand this hurts.
You don’t need to explain.
I don’t need to fix it.
I’m here anyway.
That shouldn’t feel awkward.
That should feel steady.
Sympathy given with love isn’t weakness.
It’s recognition.
And receiving it isn’t indulgent or needy.
It’s allowing someone else to do the most human thing there is: care without conditions.
And then there’s humor.
Dumb jokes. Safe jokes.
The kind your family groans at.
Those jokes aren’t noise — they’re peace offerings.
A harmless joke with a stranger says, “I’m not dangerous. You don’t have to brace yourself around me.”
A shared laugh lowers defenses faster than almost anything else. It creates common ground in seconds.
And sometimes — if you’re not careful — laughing with a stranger can make their day. Or yours.
That’s not accidental.
That’s a skill.
Knowing what to say.
Watching your tone.
Not reading too much into what people mean.
Not assuming every awkward moment is a personal failure.
That’s learned. Developed. Conditioned.
And it takes practice.
We act like people are either “good with others” or they’re not — as if social fluency is a personality trait instead of something that’s trained.
Not everyone has to be an extrovert.
But everyone needs to be reachable.
Because life corners you eventually.
You will need help.
You will need to speak first.
You will need to connect.
And silence isn’t strength — it’s isolation.
We should start teaching this early again.
That:
most people mean well
most missteps aren’t fatal
most interactions don’t need decoding
A joke that misses isn’t a catastrophe.
A strange look isn’t a verdict.
A groan isn’t rejection.
A laugh is still universal.
Sympathy still matters.
Simple words still work.
We didn’t lose the language.
We just stopped trusting it.
So maybe it’s time to start saying the old things again — plainly, slowly, without irony or shame.
Hello.
How are you?
I’m sorry for your loss.
Want to play?
Fact check me — but I think the world would feel a lot less lonely if we did.