Should I tell a friend a truth that will hurt them?

A prince once tried to trap me with a question: would I ever say something that another person found unwelcome? I answered by pointing to the infant on his lap. If the child put a stick or a stone in its mouth, would you not take it out, even if it drew blood? Yes, he said, out of compassion. So it is with speech.nnI explained the rule I follow. Words that are untrue, I do not speak. Words that are true but of no benefit, I do not speak. Words that are true, beneficial and welcome, I know the right time to say. And words that are true and beneficial, but unwelcome and painful to hear, those too I will say, but I take great care over the time.nnSo do not ask only whether this truth will hurt. Ask first: is it true? Not suspected, not rumoured, but known. Then ask: will it benefit your friend? Will knowing help them to act, protect themselves, or understand their life better? If the answer to either is no, there is no need to speak.nnIf both are yes, then speak, but choose the moment with compassion. Not in front of others. Not when they are already overwhelmed. Not to relieve your own discomfort or to show that you knew. Speak as a parent takes the stone from a child's mouth: carefully, with love, accepting that it may hurt for a moment, because the alternative would hurt more.

I have always preferred a friend who contradicts me to one who flatters me. When someone opposes me, I wrote, it rouses my attention, not my anger. I go towards the person who contradicts me, because he is teaching me something. Flattery, by contrast, is a poison that tastes pleasant. It is the opposite of friendship, which is meant to be the place where we are told the truth.nnSo my instinct, if you are truly this person's friend, is that you owe them the truth. Who else will tell them? Acquaintances will gossip behind their back. Enemies will enjoy watching them fall. Only a friend has the standing and the love to tell them to their face.nnBut I would add, out of my long habit of examining myself, a few cautions. First, be very sure you are right. We are all far less certain than we think, and I have been wrong about other people's lives more often than I like to admit. Second, examine your motive. A truth told to wound, or to show your own superior judgement, is not friendship either, even if it is true. Third, tell it simply and once. Say what you see, why you are telling them, and that you may be wrong. Then leave the decision to them. It is their life.nnIf they are angry, accept it. A friendship that cannot survive an honest word was not quite the friendship you thought.

I once wrote that love is the extremely difficult realisation that something other than oneself is real. It sounds obvious. It is not. Most of the time we see other people through a fog of our own fantasies, fears and wishes. We do not see them. We see what we need them to be.nnThis matters a great deal before you tell your friend a painful truth, because much of what we take to be truth about others is really a story we are telling ourselves. You think your friend's partner is bad for them. Is that what you have seen, or what you fear, or what you would want for yourself? You think their plan will fail. Do you know it, or are you projecting your own caution onto their courage?nnSo the first task is not to speak but to look. Pay attention to your friend as they really are, with their own reasons, history and hopes, not as a character in your picture of the situation. That patient, just attention is already a form of love, and it often changes what you think the truth is.nnIf, after looking, the truth is still there and still matters, then tell it, because truthfulness is part of love and a friend kept in comfortable illusion is not being loved. But tell it as someone who sees them, not someone who sees through them. They will feel the difference, and it may decide whether they can bear to hear it.