When Did "I'm Just Being Honest" Become a Free Pass to Hurt People?

How men weaponize "honesty" and why we let them

I remember the exact moment. We were sitting on the couch—not touching, which should’ve told me everything—and I finally asked the question I’d been avoiding for months.

“Why aren’t we intimate anymore?”

He didn’t even look at me. Just said it flat, like he was commenting on the weather: “You have gained weight.”

Four words. That’s all it took.

Now, if you know anything about narcissistic behavior, this probably doesn’t surprise you. The cruelty was the point.

But here’s what I’ve spent years unpacking: Could he have said it differently? Was there a way to communicate that truth, if it even was his truth, without the gut-punch of shame that landed with it?

Or was the damage always baked into what he was really saying?

The question nobody wants to ask

Let’s think about this for a second because it’s uncomfortable as hell.

There’s a version of this conversation where someone could express a change in attraction without weaponizing it. Maybe. In theory. If they actually cared about not hurting you.

“I’m struggling with our connection right now” is different than “you’ve gained weight.”

“I think we should talk about what’s changed between us” is different than “you’ve gained weight.”

Even “I’m having trouble with physical intimacy, and I don’t fully understand why” is different than “you’ve gained weight.”

You see the difference? Those other ways of saying it don't make it all your fault. They acknowledge that maybe something shifted between both of you, not just something wrong with your body. They treat you like a person he’s in a relationship with, not a problem he’s diagnosing.

But here's what I learned the hard way. With a narcissist, the cruelty isn't an accident. It's the whole point.

What he was actually doing

When I asked that question, I was vulnerable. I was scared. I was asking him to meet me in a tender place and help me understand what was happening to us.

And he saw an opening.

That response, ”you’ve gained weight,” wasn’t just honest. It was calculated. It was designed to make me feel small, ashamed, and solely responsible for his withdrawal. It shifted the entire problem onto my body, my failure to maintain whatever standard he’d decided I needed to meet.

Could he have worded it differently to spare my feelings? Sure. But he didn’t want to spare my feelings. He wanted to hurt me.

That’s what makes it narcissistic behavior instead of just tactless honesty.

How honesty becomes a weapon

Here’s what keeps women trapped in conversations that damage us.

We’re taught that honesty is the highest virtue in relationships. That directness means respect. That if someone is willing to “tell it like it is,” we should appreciate their courage and candor.

So when a man says something brutal and follows it with “I’m just being honest,” we’re stuck. Because how do you argue with honesty? How do you say “please lie to me instead” without sounding ridiculous?

You can’t. And he knows it.

That’s why “I’m just being honest” is such an effective shield. It reframes cruelty as virtue. It makes you the problem for having feelings about his “truth.” It positions him as the brave truth-teller and you as the overly sensitive woman who can’t handle reality.

And the worst part? We’ve been so thoroughly conditioned to value male honesty that we actually feel guilty for being hurt by it.

Why we let them get away with it

I’ve watched this pattern play out with hundreds of clients. Smart, accomplished women who would never tolerate this shit in any other context, but who twist themselves into pretzels trying to appreciate their partner’s “honesty.”

Here’s why we do it:

We’re taught our feelings are the problem. From childhood, we learn that being “too emotional” or “too sensitive” makes us difficult. So when his honesty hurts, we assume the flaw is in our reaction, not his delivery.

We mistake bluntness for integrity. Somewhere along the way, we started believing that people who sugarcoat things are dishonest, and people who are harsh are just “real.” But kindness and honesty aren’t opposites. Someone can be truthful and careful with your feelings at the same time.

We’re afraid of being the woman who can’t handle the truth. Nobody wants to be that person. The one who needs everything wrapped in bubble wrap. The one who makes everyone walk on eggshells. So we force ourselves to take whatever he dishes out and call it growth.

We confuse his lack of filter with emotional intimacy. When he says brutal things, we sometimes interpret it as closeness. Like he trusts us enough to be “real” with us. We mistake his willingness to hurt us for a sign of connection.

But here’s what I learned after therapy, both receiving it and providing it:

Brutal honesty without caring how it lands isn't connection. It's just being mean and calling it virtue.

The cost of accepting weaponized honesty

When you spend years accepting “honest” comments that hurt you, something shifts.

You start monitoring yourself constantly. Watching your weight, your tone, your needs, your requests. You become hypervigilant about anything he might decide to be “honest” about next.

You stop asking vulnerable questions because you’ve learned the answers will be delivered like grenades. Why aren’t we connecting? Why don’t you seem interested in my life? Why do I always feel lonely even when you’re here? Those questions stay locked inside because you know “honesty” is coming, and it will hurt.

You begin to gaslight yourself. Maybe you are too sensitive. Maybe you should be grateful he tells you the truth. Maybe other women would appreciate a man who doesn’t play games.

And worst of all. You lose the ability to trust your own emotional compass. When someone tells you your hurt feelings are unreasonable often enough, you stop believing your feelings mean anything at all.

What actual honesty looks like

Real honesty, the kind that builds relationships instead of destroying them, comes with care.

It sounds like: “This is hard for me to say, and I want to say it in a way that doesn’t hurt you.”

It looks like someone who pauses before speaking, who considers the impact of their words, who takes responsibility for how their truth lands.

It involves repair. When someone realizes their honesty caused pain they didn’t intend, they acknowledge it. They don’t double down and tell you you’re too sensitive. They adjust.

Honest people who actually care about you will find ways to tell you hard truths that don’t feel like attacks. They understand that delivery matters. That context matters. That your emotional safety matters more than their need to be “real.”

But here’s the bigger question

Most of you reading this aren’t dealing with full-blown narcissists. You’re dealing with regular guys who say thoughtless shit without meaning to destroy you.

And that’s where it gets complicated.

Because sometimes it really is about what he said. Sometimes the words themselves are the problem—dismissive, reductive, cruel. And no amount of gentle delivery would make them okay.

But more often? It’s the tone. The timing. The complete absence of care in how the message lands.

Think about it this way: You could tell someone they have spinach in their teeth as a quick heads-up between friends, or you could announce it loudly at a dinner party to embarrass them. Same information. Completely different intent.

When a guy responds to your vulnerability with impatience, or annoyance, or that flat affect that says he’s not really present, that’s when you feel the disconnect.

You’re responding to everything underneath the words.

The emotional aftermath

Here’s what that moment on the couch did to me. It made me avoid initiating any conversation about us for months afterward. Because I learned that vulnerability would be punished. That asking for understanding would be met with blame.

And that’s the real damage of how something is said.

It’s not just that one moment. It’s how that moment changes what you’re willing to risk the next time. And the time after that.

You start editing yourself. Swallowing your concerns. Pretending everything’s fine because it’s safer than speaking up and getting hit with another comment designed to make you feel like the problem.

Whether he meant it or not, whether he’s a narcissist or just emotionally clumsy, the impact is the same. You learn to make yourself smaller.

What I wish I’d known then

I spent way too long trying to figure out if I was being too sensitive. If maybe he was just being honest and I needed to appreciate his directness.

But here’s what I know now. How someone delivers hard truths tells you everything about whether they see you as a partner or a problem.

Someone who cares about you finds a way to be honest without being cruel. They understand that how they say something matters because your feelings matter. They take responsibility for the impact of their words, even when their intent was different.

And someone who doesn’t care—or worse, someone who wants you to hurt—will use your vulnerability as an opportunity to land a blow.

Could this ex-boyfriend have worded it differently? Absolutely.

Would it have changed anything? Probably not. Because the problem wasn’t the specific words. It was that he wanted me to feel exactly the way I felt.

So what’s the real question?

When a man says something that hurts you, here’s what you need to figure out:

• Is he horrified when he realizes the impact? Or does he double down and tell you you’re too sensitive?

• Does he adjust how he communicates once he understands it matters to you? Or does he keep doing the same thing and expect you to develop thicker skin?

• Does he treat your emotional reality as valid? Or does he make you feel crazy for having feelings about his tone, his timing, his energy?

Because yeah, sometimes it’s about what he said. The actual words were the problem.

But more often, it’s about what those words revealed: whether he sees causing you pain as something to avoid or something you deserve.

That couch conversation ended a few years later when I finally left. Not because of that one comment, but because of what it showed me about how little my feelings mattered in that relationship.

These days, I know the difference between someone who struggles to communicate well and someone who uses communication as a weapon.

You’re not crazy for feeling the difference, even when you can’t quite name it.

That feeling in your gut? Listen to it.

(P.S. I was motivated to write this post based on the latest Baldoni/Lively/Swift exchanges.)

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