Have you noticed that we all say the same thing now? Mayors, candidates, CEOs, vice-chancellors, ministry directors. The words circle around like a soft catechism: sustainable, inclusive, safe, well-being, respect. The sentences barely move from one city to another, from one panel to the next, from one committee to another. Faces change, the script stays the same. One might think it’s coherence. In reality, it’s something else. It’s a silent agreement not to touch what disturbs. And by no longer touching, we no longer feel.
The Politician
The studio smelled of the hot dust of the spotlights, that mix of thin carpet and cheap makeup that lasts too long on the skin. We weren’t in a national parliament, not in a global crisis — just a municipal debate, somewhere between two rounds of voting, on a Tuesday night. Montréal. The credits had just rolled. The podiums were close together, so much so that you could have mistaken them for a family photo.
There were three of them on stage. “Three visions,” said the banner at the bottom of the screen.
The first spoke of sustainable mobility. The city had to “reinvent space for people, not for cars”; we needed “more safe bike lanes, more accessible green zones, more proximity.” The second nodded softly, then added: “What he says is important, but I want to go further — a truly inclusive city, where every neighborhood has access to basic services, where no one is left behind, where dignity is restored through urban planning.” The third, supposedly the strong opposition, fist on the table, smiled with that intensity that says I’m different, then continued: “We need a real local climate plan. It’s not a question of ideology. It’s a question of public health.” And he said “together” three times in thirty seconds.
I looked at the production assistant behind camera two. She nodded mechanically, eyes blank. And suddenly I wondered if anyone in that room even knew how much rent costs for an attendant starting at 5:30 a.m., or what it feels like to avoid a park at dusk because you don’t want to come home with trembling hands.
When it was time for public questions, a man stood up. He had that posture of those who try to look calm while their body wants to accuse. He said, without aggression: “I just want to know why nobody talks about safety. I stopped taking my daughter out after dark. I don’t want another bike lane, I just don’t want to be afraid.” The moderator smiled, a round, professional smile. He reformulated: “So for you, the main issue is the safe coexistence of all users in public space, is that right?” The man remained standing, hands open, a bit lost. He had said I’m afraid; they had answered mobility.
What struck me that night wasn’t that they avoided the subject. It was that they sincerely believed they had answered it.
A few days later, I watched a clip of a Paris debate. The Seine as background, the idea of swimming as a symbol of urban rebirth, “the breathable city” repeated like a mantra. A worker said she had to move over an hour away because she could no longer afford a one-bedroom in Paris. The candidate, hand flat like a priest on a gospel, replied: “That’s exactly why we must rethink the city for humans.” Stockholm, same week: carbon neutrality, peaceful city, shared space. No one talked about filth, loneliness, nervous precariousness, the feeling of decline. Everywhere, the same smooth promise. Everywhere, the same inability to say out loud what bodies live in silence.
Call it what you want. That night, I called it the Grand Accord.
We don’t debate anymore. We recite together.
The Academic
The hallway smelled of erased marker and reheated coffee. On the wall, pastel posters, all with the same words: psychological safety, respectful environment, space for dialogue. A North American university as ordinary as they come. Old bricks, an overly polished hall, a glass library where particles of seriousness seemed to float. And yet, that day, the tension was thick as a tablecloth.
We were preparing a roundtable on a sensitive topic — sensitive in the sense that it touches people’s bodies, their identities, their way of saying “I.” The dean wanted an “open but responsible” discussion. In the room, six professors — not radicals, not arsonists. People who once believed the university was the place where ideas could collide without turning into war.
One professor said: “We have to be able to talk about this without being called monsters.”
A colleague raised his hands: “Yes, of course, but we have to be careful; we don’t want to invalidate lived experience.”
Another voice, very soft: “And above all, not give space to dangerous theses.”
The words fell like cushions.
There was a suspended moment when one of them — a discreet man, thin glasses, light accent — said: “Can we remind ourselves that the role of the university, historically, is not to protect the moral comfort of the moment, but to test ideas, even the disturbing ones?” No one interrupted him. No one supported him either. The silence after his sentence wasn’t hostile. It was worse: it was cautious.
That’s what froze me.
We’re no longer in an era where we burn those who disagree. We’re in the era where we let them speak — and then we don’t call them back.
Later, a student whispered a name: “Do you know Gad Saad?”
He spoke of him like one speaks of a strange creature.
“He says things no one dares say anymore. It’s entertaining, but… dangerous.”
Dangerous. The word came out without irony. We’re talking about a professor, a researcher, a man who — whatever one thinks of his tone — defends the right to name reality even when it doesn’t fit the common song. He was classified. Not refuted. Classified.
Leaving campus, I understood: the university no longer forges controversy. It anesthetizes it. We no longer prepare for the world’s complexity. We prepare never to offend it.
The Corporate Leaders
The boardroom smelled of nothing. That’s often the most unsettling — rooms that smell of nothing.
A large national insurance company, respected, bright photos on its website, promises of care and safety. The kind of place where they say “we take your concerns very seriously” before you’ve even expressed them. That day, there was an incident. Not an accounting error. A human fault, serious. Someone had crossed the line.
No one said “assault.” They said “the event.”
The legal officer spoke softly: “Our priority is to contain the risk, protect the brand, and avoid media escalation.”
The VP of operations nodded.
The wellness director suggested: “We could frame the situation as a need for generalized psychological support.”
And then, a collective breath: the relief of believing everything was solved without naming anything.
One lone voice murmured: “But if we don’t clearly say what happened, it will happen again.”
They looked at her like someone who hadn’t understood the strategy.
The following week, the company posted a pastel carousel on LinkedIn: “Zero tolerance for unacceptable behaviors.”
Lots of little hearts.
That day, I understood that language had become our favorite anesthetic. As long as the words held, the conscience could sleep.
The Consultant Not Woke
The federal government meeting room was too cold. We were talking about inclusion, terminology, alignment of practices. The consultant put down his pen. “I’d like to ask a simple question, if I may. We spent twenty years removing photos from résumés to avoid bias, and now we ask everyone to display their pronouns. Do we see the contradiction?”
Silence.
You could hear the ventilation groaning somewhere in the beige, decrepit ceilings. Then the sound of a small sip of water swallowed somewhere around the table.
The facilitator smiled: “Let’s put that question in the parking lot and return to the questionnaire we’re adding into the ATS.”
In the hallway later, someone thanked him. “That took courage.”
Nowadays, asking a question about pronouns is a bit like challenging the Charter of Rights and Freedoms.
He replied: “I just asked a logical question. I’m neither for nor against pronouns. I just wonder if we’re not giving more room for discrimination.”
“That’s what courage looks like today.”
What I’m trying to show you is nothing exotic.
It’s what happens every time a manager stays silent not to offend, a mayor answers with a keyword, a professor waits for the storm to pass before thinking out loud.
It’s not a conspiracy, nor fatigue, nor provocation. It’s a fear of dissonance.
So we choose coherence, climate, shared values. We talk about carbon neutrality while cities drown in concrete — but we prefer the appearance of progress to its coherence. We replace disagreement with comfort — and we call it maturity.
But the truth is, the only places still moving forward are those where ideas collide, where words sometimes wound but always teach.
The best companies aren’t the ones that encourage you to bring a dish from your home country to “celebrate diversity,” but the ones where people say: I don’t know, but I want to understand.
Because by no longer tolerating friction, the West has forgotten nuance.
And without nuance, everything becomes binary: there’s no in-between between success and failure, loyalty and betrayal, care and weakness.
Either you’re inclusive, or you’re excluded. Either you believe, or you’re against. We’ve erased the grey zone — that fragile place where people think before judging.
Yet that’s where intelligence is born. There’s no more learning — only slogans looping endlessly.
So yes, we still sign, still vote, still talk. But what we call dialogue is often just a multivoiced monologue.
True courage is daring the encounter. Enduring friction without seeing it as conflict.
That’s where the future begins — where words regain their gravity, and disagreement once again becomes a sign of life.
Seedz / Silent Guest
Not a coach. Not a therapist.
A clear mirror — to see sharply, before choosing.
