Jargogled Impressions.

George Bernard Shaw, that acid-tongued dramatist of sharp intellect, once wrote, “The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place.” It’s a quote that sits with you, like a glass of scotch on a quiet evening—burning slightly, then warming. The more I think about it, the more I realize: communication is the one skill we all believe we’ve mastered until the cracks begin to show.

From the first guttural sounds exchanged between our ancestors to the labyrinthine digital exchanges of today, communication has always been humanity’s defining superpower. We evolved from primal gestures—shared still with wolves, dolphins, and our primate cousins—into a species capable of poetry, diplomacy, passive aggression, marketing copy, and late-night text apologies. Somewhere along the way, our words began to carry more than information—they began to hold emotions, subtext, ambiguity, ambition.

And yet, for all our sophistication, we frequently miss each other entirely.

It’s not for lack of trying. Communication is everywhere—email threads longer than Russian novels, Microsoft Teams messages ricocheting in digital silence, PowerPoint decks with more shapes than words. In our personal lives, we have text chains with our spouses that range from grocery lists to existential therapy. And in all this, we carry the belief that we’ve said what needs saying, that the point has landed, that we’ve been understood.

Often, we haven’t.

In my own journey—both as a professional navigating the glassy waters of tech organizations and as a husband trying not to leave socks in places they don’t belong—I’ve learned that the assumption of communication is more dangerous than the lack of it. It’s a silent killer, dressed up in well-structured sentences and bullet points. You say it. They nod. You think you’re aligned. Later, you realize you were facing opposite directions the entire time.

I. The Anatomy of Misfires

Let’s break it down. Communication is not a monolith. It wears many hats. There’s 1:1 communication, which is intimate, nuanced, and deeply affected by emotional undercurrents. There’s 1:many, often the default in organizations, where you must balance clarity, context, and brevity. And then there’s many:1, which spills into the territory of mob behavior—Twitter threads, viral opinions, stakeholder escalations. I won’t dwell on that last one; I’ve learned the hard way that commenting on the internet is like yelling into a canyon and expecting reason to echo back.

In 1:1 scenarios—especially with a spouse—I’ve learned that overcommunication is often better than under. I say this with caution, for relationships are peculiar things. Some flourish in silence, others need a daily check-in. But if there’s one generalization I dare offer, it’s this: when we talk it out, things smoothen; when we stew in silence, they curdle. Ruminating is not the same as resolving.

The workplace, however, is its own performance art. Here, the stakes are different. You’re not arguing over whose turn it is to do the dishes; you’re aligning on roadmaps, dependencies, and metrics. In this 1:many realm, I’ve found that conciseness and actionability carry more currency than eloquence. The “curse of knowledge” clouds us—we overestimate what others know, forgetting that our listener hasn’t marinated in our context. Simplicity is kindness. Storytelling is strategy.

II. The Invisible Threads

But strategic communication—especially in the crucible of close relationships—is no simple feat. It requires what psychologists call “theory of mind”: the ability to understand that others have thoughts, knowledge, and feelings different from our own. You’re not just sending a message; you’re simulating a brain. You’re building bridges over unseen rivers of assumptions and insecurities.

No large language model will ever fully master that.

And yet, in the age of AI, communication is evolving still. We’re learning to “talk” to machines. Prompt engineering is now a skill, and issuing precise instructions to digital agents mirrors the same clarity we often struggle to bring to our human conversations. A curious parallel emerges: the better we become at structuring communication with machines, the more we’re reminded of what we often neglect in human conversations—intent, clarity, feedback.

Which brings me to a few learnings I now hold dear, scribbled not in a rulebook but in the margins of everyday life:

• Active listening isn’t nodding while waiting for your turn to speak. It’s summarizing, mirroring, asking follow-ups. It’s making someone feel heard, not just endured.
• Nonverbal communication—tone, posture, facial cues—carries more meaning than words ever can. Ignore it at your own peril. Emails and Slack strip this away, which is why so many messages come across colder, harsher, or more passive-aggressive than intended.
• Clarity > complexity. Especially when you’re the expert. The more time you’ve spent with a problem, the more responsibility you bear in translating it for someone new. Use metaphors. Use analogies. Use stories.
• Reframing is underrated. A change in tone, timing, or language can radically alter how a message lands. Email drafts should be slept on. Feedback should be given after the heat has dissipated.
• Emotional regulation is communication’s best-kept secret. My wife has a brilliant rule: keep your cards close when delivering bad news. Time is both a healer and a teacher—it teaches you when not to speak.

III. The Emotional Engine

In the end, communication isn’t just a cognitive skill—it’s an emotional one. When we are angry, anxious, or envious, our ability to communicate effectively collapses. We react instead of respond. We defend instead of engage. And we justify instead of clarify. The path forward lies not in more talking, but in more intention.

Viktor Frankl once wrote, “Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response.” That space is where real communication lives. When we own our mindset, when we learn to pause, to breathe, to choose—not react—we take the first step toward making the illusion real.

So perhaps the antidote to Shaw’s illusion is not just better words, but better awareness. Communication, I’ve come to believe, is a live learning theater—an ever-evolving art that must be practiced, examined, and occasionally, forgiven. It’s not what you said. It’s what they heard. It’s not what you meant. It’s what was felt.

And if we can hold that paradox gently in our hands, we might—just might—finally say what we mean.