I Knew What I Meant. That Was the Problem.

I’ve been thinking lately about how oddly dangerous language can be. Not the big obvious stuff, but the throwaway sentences, the ones we type without pausing because we know what we mean. And then, years later, they come back to haunt us.

One particular email still pops into my head uninvited. You know the sort: intrusive cringe thoughts that arrive with a cheerful “Remember this?” and absolutely no intention of being helpful.

This one involved a former stage-fighting teacher from drama college in London in the 1980s. I found him on Facebook years later and was genuinely thrilled. He’d done well, had moved to the U.S., and seemed to be thriving. I even wrote to thank him, because one of the lessons he taught us had found its way,  consciously or not, into Time Twist.

He replied warmly. I sent him an old photo of the two of us at a college event: teacher and student, nothing remotely improper, just a nice memory captured by someone else’s camera.

He wrote back jokingly, “It looks like I’m flirting.”

And here’s where I went wrong. I replied with a single sentence: “You didn’t have a chance with us back then.”

In my head, what I meant was affectionate and teasing. You were handsome. Everyone fancied you. You were surrounded. You didn’t stand a chance of escaping the attention.

What it read like instead was something closer to: You were delusional. You never stood a chance. Don’t flatter yourself.

The tone, the warmth, the smile, the shared context … never made it through the screen.

His response was understandably hostile. I immediately knew I’d messed up. But this was years ago, before I’d learned something I know now: when you misspeak, it’s often necessary to repair it out loud.

Back then, I didn’t. I froze. I was polite, let the conversation die, and didn’t follow up. The relationship ended right there, not with a blow-up, but with a quiet door closing.

And I’ve replayed that moment ever since.

What’s struck me recently is this: the email itself wasn’t cruel. It was ambiguous. And ambiguity in text is a dangerous thing, because the reader fills in the gaps with their own history, sensitivities, and fears, especially when power dynamics and gender are involved.

Email has no eyebrows. No softening laugh. No chance to say, “Oh God, that came out wrong.”

I also see something else now: I didn’t lack empathy back then. I lacked tools. I hadn’t yet learned to lead with intent, to preface humor, to slow down just long enough to ask, “Could this be misread if the person on the other end is tired, defensive, or vulnerable?”

That lesson stuck. Painfully, but permanently.

These days, if I feel even a flicker of doubt, I add a sentence I once would have thought unnecessary:

“I mean this kindly.”

“I’m joking … badly, please read with a smile.”

“Let me rephrase that, because it came out wrong.”

It’s not over-explaining. It’s generosity.

Here’s the part I’m learning to believe: the fact that I still cringe doesn’t mean I’m guilty. I tell myself that people who don’t care don’t replay old emails at midnight.

When that memory pops up now, I try not to argue with it or shove it away. I just acknowledge it: yes, that happened; and yes, I learned from it. There’s a part of me that would like to reach out and explain, or apologize, but I also know that reopening it would likely serve my own need for relief more than his, and that matters. The email did its job, even if it took the long way around. I’m clearer, kinder, and quicker to repair than I was then. At some point, the lesson becomes more important than the embarrassment, and the mind can finally stop raising its hand to say, “Remember this?” I do. And I’m different now.

In a fight scene with a fellow student