When counsel costs us connection

 It is easy to offer advice à la ‘if I were you … ’ but we may end up hurting those we hope to help.

Gordon Lightfoot once sang about what it would mean if someone could read his mind — what stories his thoughts would tell.

If only it were that easy.

In Malaysia, we often behave as if we can. The moment a friend confesses he is exhausted from job hunting, or another shares her motherhood woes, or an uncle admits he is struggling in his marriage, advice rises instinctively to our lips.

At weddings, at open houses, over teh tarik with colleagues — someone will eventually say “if I were you …”.

It’s rarely said with malice. Most of the time, it is love. It is concern. It is our communal reflex to fix, to guide, to protect. We are, after all, a society built on interdependence and community.

We ask about your parents. We show concern about your career. We have opinions about your children. Caring could very well be a national sport.

But caring and correcting are not the same thing.

Psychology tells us something important: human beings have a deep need for autonomy. Self-determination theory — a well-established framework in behavioural science — suggests that people thrive when they feel a sense of agency over their own decisions.

When advice is imposed rather than invited, even if well-intentioned, it can trigger defensiveness instead of relief. The brain can read the unsolicited correction as a subtle threat to competence.

In other words, advice without permission can feel like judgement.

No one likes to feel diminished in the very moment they are trying to be brave.

And bravery, in Malaysia, can be complicated. It is not easy to admit you are struggling when family, financial, or social expectations sit quietly in the room with you.

It is not easy to say you are pivoting careers in your 40s, or that therapy is helping you cope with daily struggles, or that you are unsure about your child’s future.

I once sat at a family dinner, where someone quietly admitted that she was considering a career change. Before the sentence had fully landed, the table erupted:

“But you have stability!”

“At this age?”

“Think about your EPF!”

The concern was real. So was the silence that followed. No one asked what she actually wanted. She didn’t say much after that.

The truth is, we cannot read each other’s minds. We don’t carry the same histories, the same private fears about money, growing children, aging parents or disappointing expectations. We don’t feel the quiet calculations someone makes before they act on or speak about something.

So, what if, instead of assuming insight, we asked permission?

“What do you need right now? Advice, or just a listening ear?”

That small question changes the temperature of a conversation. It preserves dignity. It signals respect. It tells the other person: I trust you to know your own life.

In Malaysia, where community matters so much, perhaps the most generous thing we can offer isn’t instruction, but space.

The space for someone to speak. The space for them to decide. And the reassurance that we will be there for them, even if their choice isn’t the one we would have made.

Reaching out sustains our human ecosystem. But tact sustains the relationship.

Because if we truly could read each other’s minds — as Lightfoot once imagined — we might hesitate before prescribing solutions.

We might realise that the tale their thoughts would tell is far more layered, fragile and human. Rarely the one we imagine. - FMT

 The views expressed are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect those of MMKtT.