When I was a young man, fresh-faced and eager, I walked into my new office at the college where I had just been hired as a professor. My neighbor, an older woman who had been teaching there for thirty years, occupied the office next door. She was hard, grumpy, and seemed perpetually dissatisfied. I watched her snap at colleagues, correct administrators mid-sentence, and voice her disagreement with departmental decisions before anyone had finished speaking. Her abrasive style confused me. Why couldn’t she just let things go? Why did she have to be so confrontational, so unwilling to accommodate?
I remember thinking she had simply grown bitter with age, that decades in academia had worn away whatever patience or grace she once possessed. I made a quiet promise to myself that I would never become like her. I would remain flexible, agreeable, and easy to work with no matter how many years passed.
Forty years later, I understand.
It wasn’t bitterness that shaped her behavior. It was wisdom. Hard-earned, battle-tested wisdom that I now carry in my own bones. Every time I detect something wrong such as a flawed assumption, a careless decision, an opinion that will lead to trouble and I choose not to address it, that problem doesn’t disappear. It lingers. It grows. It festers like an untreated wound until it becomes a serious source of stress and aggravation, not just for me but for everyone involved.
That older professor had learned what I now know: do not let anything fester. Take care of it right away, before it has a chance to gain strength. If you let a problem sit, if you let a disagreement simmer beneath the surface, the difficulty of addressing it later will far exceed the discomfort of addressing it now. The issue compounds. The stakes rise. What could have been a simple correction becomes a confrontation. What could have been a brief conversation becomes a formal complaint. What could have been resolved with honesty becomes entangled in resentment.
My grandmother used to tell me that the trick with weed control was to get them while they are young. Pull them when they’re small, when their roots are shallow, and they come up easily. Wait too long, and those roots dig deep. They spread. They choke out everything around them. By the time you finally decide to deal with them, you need tools, effort, and a willingness to disturb the entire garden.
Apparently, that’s true with opinions too.
When someone presents an idea that I know is flawed, when a colleague makes a decision that will create problems down the line, when a student adopts a perspective that will limit their growth, I have a choice. I can stay silent, avoid the discomfort, and hope the issue resolves itself. Or I can speak up now, clearly and directly, and address the problem while it’s still manageable.
Silence feels easier in the moment. It avoids conflict. It preserves the illusion of harmony. But silence is not kindness. Silence is a loan taken out against future peace, and the interest compounds daily. The longer you wait, the more you owe. Eventually, the debt becomes so large that paying it back requires more energy, more courage, and more disruption than you’re willing to give. So you avoid it even longer. The cycle continues.
I used to think that being agreeable meant letting things slide. I thought accommodation meant biting my tongue when I disagreed. I thought patience meant waiting for others to come around on their own. I was wrong. Real patience is the willingness to have the hard conversation now so that a harder conversation isn’t required later. Real accommodation is helping someone see a problem before it becomes a crisis. Real kindness is telling the truth when it’s still useful.
That older professor wasn’t grumpy. She was efficient. She had learned that every unaddressed issue is a future burden, and she refused to carry unnecessary weight. She had learned that clarity, even when it stings, is a gift. She had learned that the cost of speaking up is almost always lower than the cost of staying silent.
I think about the times I let things go. The times I smiled and nodded when I should have asked a question. The times I agreed to a plan I knew wouldn’t work because I didn’t want to seem difficult. The times I watched someone make a mistake and said nothing because I didn’t want to embarrass them. In every case, the problem came back. It always comes back. And when it did, it was bigger, messier, and harder to untangle.
Now I speak up. Not with cruelty. Not with arrogance. But with clarity. I address the issue while it’s small. I ask the question that needs asking. I voice the concern that others are thinking but not saying. I correct the assumption before it becomes a strategy. I challenge the opinion before it becomes a policy.
And yes, sometimes people are surprised. Sometimes they’re uncomfortable. Sometimes they think I’m being difficult or unnecessarily critical. But I’ve learned that discomfort is not the same as harm. A moment of awkwardness now prevents a season of frustration later. A brief correction now prevents a long apology later. A clear boundary now prevents a broken relationship later.
My grandmother was right. Weeds are easiest to pull when they’re young. Opinions, too. Misunderstandings, too. Conflicts, too. The longer you wait, the deeper the roots grow, and the more damage you cause when you finally try to remove them.
So I’ve become that older professor. I’m the one who speaks up in meetings. I’m the one who asks the hard question. I’m the one who says, “I don’t think that will work,” or “Have you considered this?” or “I disagree, and here’s why.” I’m sure some of my younger colleagues think I’m difficult. I’m sure some of them wonder why I can’t just let things go.
One day, they’ll understand.
One day, they’ll carry the weight of a problem they should have addressed years ago, and they’ll remember the person who tried to stop it when it was still small. They’ll realize that the hard conversation they avoided didn’t disappear, it just waited. And when it finally arrived, it brought friends.
The trick is simple: address it now. Don’t let it fester. Don’t let it grow. Don’t convince yourself that it will resolve on its own or that someone else will handle it. Pull the weed while it’s young. Speak the truth while it still matters. Correct the course while the ship is still close to shore.
Your future self will thank you. And if you’re lucky, forty years from now, some young person will look at you and wonder why you’re so quick to speak up, so unwilling to let things slide. And you’ll smile, because you’ll know exactly why.
You learned.
