Communication is supposed to be humanity's superpower. It’s the thing that sets us apart from other species—the ability to share ideas, express emotions, and coordinate our collective mess. And yet, we’re spectacularly bad at it. In English, the language I navigate daily, this incompetence is amplified. Between our tendencies to misread, misunderstand, and muddle through conversations without asking clarifying questions, we’re often our own worst enemies when it comes to being understood.

One of the core issues is that humans are hopelessly self-centered communicators. We tend to believe our own perspective is universal. When we say something, we assume the meaning is obvious, forgetting that others might not share our context or interpretation. A simple phrase like “Let’s circle back later” can seem straightforward to one person but entirely ambiguous to another. Does it mean tomorrow, next week, or never? The vagueness feels harmless until it snowballs into mismatched expectations and missed opportunities.

This overconfidence in our clarity is well-documented. Studies have shown that people overestimate how well they’ve communicated nearly half the time. That’s right—almost one out of every two conversations could be a misfire, even when everyone is supposedly speaking the same language.

Another common pitfall is our collective aversion to asking questions. Whether it’s fear of looking foolish or an instinct to avoid confrontation, we often nod along even when we’re lost. This reluctance creates a feedback loop of misunderstanding: one person assumes they’ve been understood, while the other hopes the meaning will become clear later. It rarely does. It’s like assembling IKEA furniture without reading the manual because you’re too proud to admit you need help. Before you know it, the whole thing collapses under the weight of unspoken assumptions.

English itself doesn’t make this easier. If languages were machines, English would be the duct-taped Frankenstein of the bunch, cobbled together from other tongues and riddled with inconsistencies. A phrase like “I’m fine” can mean anything from genuine contentment to “I’m barely holding it together, but I don’t want to talk about it.” The tone, context, and even punctuation can entirely change the meaning. This kind of ambiguity might add flavor to poetry, but in everyday communication, it’s a recipe for disaster.

We also tend to prioritize politeness over precision. Instead of saying exactly what we mean, we dance around the edges of clarity to avoid offending or inconveniencing others. A simple request like “I need this by Thursday” gets softened into “If it’s not too much trouble, could you maybe get this done by the end of the week?” This hedging doesn’t make us more considerate—it just makes the message harder to interpret. Ironically, the more we try to be gentle with our words, the greater the risk of being misunderstood.

Clarity, for all its virtues, doesn’t come naturally. In fact, it can feel awkward or even rude to be direct. We’re conditioned to believe that precise communication is too rigid, too cold. And yet, research consistently shows that clear communication doesn’t just save time—it boosts productivity and strengthens relationships. When everyone knows exactly what’s being said, there’s less room for error.

So why don’t we fix this? Maybe it’s because muddling through feels easier than confronting the discomfort of saying, “Wait, what exactly do you mean by that?” Maybe we’re all just hoping the other person will read our minds. Whatever the reason, we keep stumbling over the same pitfalls, leaving a trail of miscommunications in our wake.

At the end of the day, human communication is like a bad game of telephone. We whisper, we guess, and we hope the message survives. Most of the time, it doesn’t. But if we want to get better, we’ll need to lean into the discomfort of asking questions, clarifying meanings, and maybe—just maybe—accepting that “I’m fine” probably isn’t fine at all. After all, if English is a mess, at least we can say we’re fluent in chaos.