Social Worker Who Can't Communicate

You’d think being a social worker would make you good with people—an excellent communicator. It’s in the title, after all: social. Communicating program criteria? Easy enough. Declining an application? Difficult, but manageable. In a professional setting, there’s a script to follow. Even when the reaction on the other end is harsh, you learn not to take it personally.

But in your personal life, it’s different. Why is it so much harder?

At work, I can tell someone they don’t qualify for assistance—knowing it could lead to eviction or worse—and still hold my ground. But upsetting a family member or partner feels heavier, more complicated. It should be easier to talk to the people closest to you. They should understand your intentions. And yet, something about that closeness makes it harder to speak honestly. Small frustrations go unspoken, pushed aside, until they quietly build into something bigger.

Maybe it goes back to how I grew up. I never felt comfortable bringing things up with my dad—especially anything emotional. Our conversations were practical, surface-level. If we talked, it was about things like car maintenance, not feelings. With my mom, I was a bit more open, but only to a point. I could say that I was sad, but not why. I never really unpacked what was behind it.

Even now, I notice the same patterns. Around my dad, I keep my guard up and act like everything’s fine. Talking about emotions feels unnatural—almost impossible. With my mom, I can relax a little more, be a bit more like myself. But even then, I can’t recall many real, meaningful conversations about feelings. And I don’t blame her. In a lot of ways, it was on me to bring those things up—and I didn’t.

It’s not like the environment was hostile. I had what I needed growing up. But emotional conversations just weren’t part of it. A lot of my childhood was spent with my grandma while my parents worked. She took care of me, made sure I was safe, fed, and looked after. But feelings weren’t something we talked about. If I cried, she would comfort me—but once it passed, that was it. We didn’t revisit it or try to understand it.

Cultural and Language Barriers

There was also a language barrier. My Korean was basic—good enough for daily life, but not for anything deeper. My grandma didn’t speak English, so expressing more complex thoughts felt out of reach. Now she’s back in Korea, and with her dementia, I can’t help but feel like I missed my chance to really know her.

With my parents, language played a role too. Their English was fine, but they often defaulted to Korean. Even simple things like learning math together could be frustrating. So if communication was already hard there, how was I supposed to talk about something as abstract as emotions? It just didn’t feel like an option.

And with my younger sister, the age gap made me assume we didn’t have much in common. Maybe that wasn’t true—she’s even told my mom she wishes I were more communicative. But at the time, I didn’t see her as someone I could open up to.

So growing up, who did I really share my thoughts with?

Mostly just God—and myself.

And looking back, that isolation wasn’t healthy.

Bottled Up

If I think about it, there have only been a few times I’ve fully expressed my sadness by breaking down in front of others—maybe twice (I'm probably forgetting so many other cases). Once during a breakup, and once when I was younger and in physical pain. My mom was there for me during difficult periods too, like in high school when I felt isolated and lost. But even then, I didn’t really communicate what I was going through. It was brushed off—it’s just high school, it’ll pass. So I bottled it up and left it there.

But things that get bottled up don’t really go away. They leave a mark. And if you don’t deal with them, that mark stays.

Only now am I realizing that a lot of those feelings were never actually communicated. They only came out when they hit a breaking point. I was never afraid to cry—in fact, crying helped. It made me feel better, even if only temporarily. And maybe that’s part of the problem. It taught me that it was okay to let things build up, because there would always be that release at the end.

To some extent, I did acknowledge my struggles. I wasn’t in denial about them, and that probably helped. Some people cope by avoiding or numbing things altogether. But even so, there were many moments where better communication could have prevented those breakdowns in the first place. Instead, it became normal to hold everything in until it spilled over.

That pattern followed me into my relationships too. My partners have seen me cry, seen me emotional—but I haven’t always been able to fully explain what’s going on in my head. I can sometimes break down my feelings into parts—30% anger, 20% annoyance, 50% sadness. That’s a start. But even that 50% of sadness is complicated. Sadness isn’t one thing; it’s layered.

And unpacking it is hard. Where is it coming from?

Lately, I’ve been thinking about my career. Why do I feel uneasy about the field I’m in? I can explain why I chose social work, but is that the full truth—or just something I tell myself because it sounds right? If I’m honest, there’s some embarrassment there. Some shame. A lack of confidence. And that’s uncomfortable to admit.

A lot of the time, I tell myself these feelings will pass. So why dig into them? Why deal with them directly?

But I’m starting to see that they don’t just pass. Not really. And avoiding them doesn’t make them disappear—it just delays the moment they come back.

Communication is something I have to work on deliberately. Not just for my job, but for my family, my partner, and my friends.

I spend time writing about social issues, but this is an issue too. And it would feel dishonest to ignore it.

God Knows Me

When I was younger, if I had concerns, I would pray. That was my main outlet. I don’t even remember exactly what I said, but it was one of the few spaces where I felt I could express something freely. There was comfort in believing that God understood me completely even if I couldn’t fully articulate what I was feeling.

But I don’t think that translated well into real-life communication. Somewhere along the way, I started assuming that other people would just know how I felt too.

If I went to bed early, I thought it would signal that I was sad. If I avoided eye contact, I thought I was giving space, but it probably came across as cold or distant. And the reality is, people don’t interpret those signals the way we think they do. They fill in the gaps with their own assumptions.

I used to think that simply feeling something—and showing a hint of it—was enough.

But it isn’t.

No Excuse

I can’t use my cultural upbringing or language as an excuse for my lack of effective communication. It helps explain where some of my habits come from, and it’s given me more awareness—but it’s still on me to change.

For a long time, I thought I was a decent communicator. I was wrong.

Only recently have I started to understand that being direct—even a little confrontational—is necessary. People can’t read intentions through actions alone. Actions are ambiguous; they get interpreted in all sorts of ways. I’ve also learned that it’s okay to ask people how they’re feeling, instead of assuming. Most of my assumptions are wrong anyway.

I used to think, They seem upset with me, so I should give them space and leave. But that’s just a guess often driven by my own fear of making things worse. Avoiding the situation might feel safer in the moment, but it doesn’t actually solve anything. If anything, it creates more distance. That’s something I need to push through, even if it means starting small.

There’s also this belief I’ve carried that I shouldn’t complain—that bringing up concerns somehow makes me difficult. If I’m late to work by five or ten minutes, I tell myself it’s not a big deal because I drive. If someone sounds irritated or raises their voice, I assume they have a right to feel that way, and I don’t question it. Who am I to push back?

But that mindset comes at a cost.

If I feel stressed because we’re running late, it’s okay to say that. I wish we left earlier—I’m feeling anxious about the time. That’s not complaining; that’s communicating. I can even go a step further and explain why I hesitate to speak up in the first place. That internal tension—that back-and-forth in my head—is something I’m allowed to put into words.

Because if I don’t, people are left guessing. And I’m left carrying it alone.

I’m not a good actor. I would make a terrible actor. I can’t convincingly pretend everything is fine. That tension doesn’t just disappear—it builds. And over time, it turns into resentment and unnecessary pain.

Saying “I’m fine” when I’m not doesn’t keep the peace. It just delays the problem.

Who Is this for?

This post doesn’t really fit anywhere. I’m not going after H&R Block, or ACSW, or religion this time. I’m going after myself.

And writing this is probably the first real step. I don’t think I could have said any of this out loud—not clearly, at least. Putting it into words like this forces me to slow down and actually process what’s going on in my head. Even having help refining it makes a difference. At least it comes out in a way that feels coherent, instead of scattered.

This post is really for me.

If someone else reads it and understands me a bit better—or even sees something in themselves—then that’s a bonus. But at its core, this is just a snapshot. A moment in time. A record of what I’ve been feeling and struggling with.

Part of me downplays it. It doesn’t feel “serious” enough. It’s not PTSD or some major, clearly defined issue. And yet, it still affects me. It still shows up in how I think, how I act, how I relate to people.

And maybe that’s the point. It doesn’t have to be extreme to matter.

At the same time, I don’t really know how deep this goes. There could be things I haven’t fully unpacked yet. Maybe there are patterns or experiences I haven’t connected. Maybe this is something I need help working through.

If someone read this and said, “Yeah, you should probably talk to a therapist,” I wouldn’t disagree.

If anything, I hope this gives me something to bring with me when I do.