The phrase sounds harmless, even compassionate: your truth. It’s offered as a way to honor personal experience, to avoid offense, to signal empathy. But somewhere along the way, it stopped meaning my perspective and started meaning my conclusion is beyond challenge. And that’s where trouble begins.
Truth, by definition, isn’t private property. It doesn’t belong to me or to you. It exists independently of how we feel about it. Gravity doesn’t become optional because someone has a different experience of falling. Reality doesn’t bend out of courtesy.
What “your truth” really does is shut the door on conversation. It reframes disagreement as disrespect and turns questions into attacks. Once that happens, dialogue is no longer about discovering what’s real — it’s about defending an identity. Evidence stops being examined and starts being filtered. Facts aren’t weighed; they’re screened for compatibility.
At some point, the problem isn’t disagreement — it’s blindness. Not a lack of intelligence, but a refusal to see. Scripture describes this plainly: eyes that do not see, ears that do not hear. When someone is committed to “their truth,” evidence becomes a threat rather than a tool. And no amount of explanation can penetrate a worldview that has already decided what must not be questioned. You’re not arguing facts anymore; you’re pressing against blinders that exist to keep certain conclusions safely out of view.
That’s why these conversations are so exhausting. You can feel it when you’re talking at someone rather than with them. Listening has been replaced by waiting to respond. Curiosity has been replaced by certainty. Persuasion isn’t failing — it was never invited in the first place.
This doesn’t mean people are stupid. It means they’re invested. Seeing the truth would cost them something: status, belonging, moral high ground, or the comfort of being right. And when truth threatens identity, identity usually wins.
The Bible never treats truth as negotiable, but it also never commands endless argument. Jesus explains. He warns. He answers honest questions. And then, when hearts are closed, He walks away. Not in anger — in clarity. Truth is offered, not forced.
And that may be the hardest lesson to accept: understanding someone does not obligate you to engage them indefinitely. There is a point where the wisest move is not to keep explaining, but to step back and refuse to confuse persistence with faithfulness.
Truth doesn’t need consensus to remain true. It doesn’t need affirmation to stand. Our responsibility isn’t to manufacture agreement, but to speak honestly, live consistently, and recognize when a conversation has ceased to be about truth at all.
Sometimes the most rational, faithful response is simply to stop arguing — and let reality speak for itself.
