The Truth in Nonfiction Isn’t Always the Same: On Meaning, Perspective, and Why Communication Still Matters →

We often treat nonfiction as the realm of clarity—facts, truths, lessons. But even in the most well-intentioned writing, something curious happens: each reader walks away with something slightly different. The same sentence might inspire one person and confuse another. A personal story might feel universal to some, but irrelevant to others.

That’s not because the writer failed.

It’s because understanding isn’t fixed. Meaning is shaped by the reader’s own experiences, assumptions, and readiness to receive it. No two people truly read the same book. Even when the words are identical, the interpretation lives in a different place.

This is what makes human communication both fragile and deeply beautiful.

We’re not just sharing information—we’re shaping connection. The power of words isn’t in how precisely they land, but in how honestly they invite others in.

I write books and reflections that try to be helpful. But I know that what someone finds in them might not be what I intended. And that’s okay. Sometimes the value lies in the conversation a sentence sparks, not the sentence itself.

So the next time you find yourself wondering whether what you wrote, said, or shared was understood exactly as you meant it—pause. The fact that it reached someone, and they made meaning of it, is a kind of success we don’t always name.

That’s the quiet miracle of communication: it may not always be exact, but it’s still connection.