When Did We Stop Seeing Each Other?
- Michelle Porter
- Jan 25
- 4 min read

I keep seeing glimpses of something I deeply want to believe: that we're more connected than divided, that communication could bring us together.
I see it in moments when someone reaches across difference with genuine curiosity. When people hold their convictions strongly while still extending compassion to those who see things differently. When someone says "I don't agree with you, but I hear you."
Those moments remind me it's possible. And then I watch how we actually communicate with each other, and I wonder... what happened?
Conversation as Warfare
Here's what I keep noticing: we've stopped responding to what people actually say. We're responding to which category we've sorted them into.
Sometimes it's intentional - people poking just to get a reaction, engaging not to connect but to trigger. You see it everywhere from social media comment sections to family group chats. The goal isn't conversation, it's confrontation.
But often it's more subtle. A friend shares a text that gets completely misread because the other person is primed for defense rather than connection. Someone tries to explain a nuanced position and gets flattened into an overly simplistic version that's easier to dismiss. A conversation that could have led somewhere interesting gets shut down before it even starts because we've already decided what "someone like them" must think.
I've watched someone try to share a faith-based perspective as an invitation to dialogue, only to have it dismissed as narrow-mindedness before they even finished speaking. I've seen people articulate complex positions - yes to this AND yes to that - get reduced to overly simplistic versions: "so you're saying..." followed by something they absolutely didn't say.
Even in my own conversations, I catch people trying to pin me into a camp so they know how to respond. Sometimes I wonder if they're just too lazy to see me - Michelle, the actual human - outside the label they've assigned. Sometimes I DO say it directly, challenging them: "You know me. Am I a person to you, or just an element to be sorted into a box?"
Because that's really what we're doing to each other - reducing actual humans to elements we can easily categorize and file away.
Am I a person to you, or just an element to be sorted into a box?
Here's what I keep noticing about the language running underneath these interactions: Attack. Defend. Safe. React. Trigger. Enemy.
These are all war metaphors. Combat language. We've literally started treating conversation as warfare - where the goal is to win, defend territory, identify threats.
The frameworks we use to make sense of the world - political, religious, ideological - they help us navigate complexity. But somewhere along the way, we started using them to sort people instead of understand them. And once someone's been sorted, we stop listening to what they're actually saying. We just respond to the version our framework predicted.
When Nuance Flatlines
This isn't just about hurt feelings or missed connections, though those matter.
When we engage framework-first instead of human-first, we lose the ability to hold nuance. Everything collapses into absolutes. You're either completely with us or completely against us. There's no room for "I share your values but see this differently" or "I'm wrestling with multiple truths here."
And here's what really troubles me: we can't solve actual problems this way.
Think about the complex issues we're facing - how we care for each other and our communities, how we build systems that work for real people, how we navigate genuine differences while staying connected. None of these have simple answers. All of them require us to hold multiple perspectives, wrestle with trade-offs, find solutions that honor different legitimate concerns.
But we can't do any of that if we're arguing with overly simplistic versions instead of engaging with actual humans.
Reclaiming Curiosity and Connection
I don't have this figured out. I catch myself sorting and reacting too. But I'm trying to notice when I do it. And here's what I'm practicing:
What if we tried different language? Not just in what we say out loud, but in the questions running through our heads during conversations:
Instead of unconsciously scanning for threat, asking "friend or foe?" consider "How can I be curious about what they're actually saying?"
Instead of "How do I win this?" try "Am I able to listen AND hold my own perspective?"
Instead of "Which camp are they in?" ask "What more can I learn about this human in front of me?"
This isn't about being naive or abandoning discernment. Some positions genuinely do cause harm. Some conversations aren't safe. But we've gotten so primed for combat that we're bringing war language to encounters that don't need it - with friends, family, neighbors, people who actually care about many of the same things we do but see the path differently.
When you feel yourself being reduced to a category, you can name it - gently but clearly. "I'm more complex than that" or "That's not what I'm saying - let me try again."
And when someone's trying to explain their position, you can ask: "Is that what you mean? Can you tell me more?" Not as a tactic, but as genuine curiosity.
When you catch yourself doing it to someone else - reducing them to their framework, their label, their presumed position - you can pause. Get curious. Ask a question. Remember you're talking to a person, not a category.
Our experiences shape how we see the world. They don't have to determine how much compassion we extend.
I still believe we're more connected than divided. I still believe communication could bring us together. But it requires actually communicating - with actual people, not the predictions our frameworks make.
So here's one small step: In your next conversation, when you feel that sorting impulse kick in, pause. Ask yourself: "What am I missing about this person?" Or if you're brave: "Am I treating them like a person or a category?"
It's small. It's hard. And right now, it might be exactly what we need.


