Tuesday, November 10, 2026
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Many men have been in this situation: Your friend says something messed up, and instead of speaking out, you keep quiet. It’s just easier that way, right? Then, later, you wonder, Why the hell didn’t I say anything? Well, there’s a reason for that. Esquire contributor Jen Golbeck describes this phenomenon in detail below—and offers a solution. —Chris Hatler, deputy editor
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Your friend does something terrible. You know you should say something, but you don’t. There’s a reason for that.
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I joined three men for drinks recently, two of whom I am close with, one a casual acquaintance. A couple of hours into the evening, once our French fries were soggy and the Modelos had done their work, the acquaintance told us about an argument he had with his girlfriend a few months back. It got physical, he said, leaning back in his chair. The fight ended with her in the hospital. He told the story like a man pleading his case before a jury, his eyes full of defiance and indignation but also fear. He rejected responsibility for her injuries and was desperate to be told he had done nothing wrong.
“There is just a lot of passion in our relationship,” he said. “If it was a big deal, she would have left me then.”
I watched him across the dark wooden table, my face as blank as I could manage. He looked to the other men as he spoke. I do not remember all of his excuses, only that they tumbled from his lips like a flood. I do remember that my two friends said nothing.
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The options for communication are endless. Getting in touch with someone has never been easier, which also means we are subject to frequent digital conversations we’d rather not have. You can thank our overlords in Big Tech for that. Friends, family, enemies, and strangers alike can pepper open in-boxes with questions and concerns ranging from the unnecessary to full-scale attacks on your character, tastes, and loosely held opinions. Nearly 90 percent of Americans use text messaging or messaging apps daily, with 29 percent saying they’re texting more than they were one year ago, according to a 2026 YouGov study. Even with notifications turned off, they lurk in the background, and the social pressure to respond is hard for almost anyone to ignore.
But there is an anecdote to this scourge of modern life.
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We have lived long enough in the algorithmic universe to say it definitively: Life needs curation, and that job needs to be done by a human being. I have always known this, because I am a youngest sibling. I have two brothers, eight and nine and a half years ahead of me. The older is more cautious, the younger is more creative, and I don’t want to call their senses of humor sarcastic, but if you want to see me have a panic attack, pay me a compliment. They have big opinions, and they say them loudly, which was great when I was young and wanted guidance. When one brought the Clash’s London Calling back from college in 1980 and the other brought The Gap Band III, my taste in music was born.
I consumed this music mostly on the big-tech gadget of the time: the Sony Walkman. A personal stereo was a little isolating, which was the draw. Slide those foam headphones on and you could bump your own soundtrack anywhere—except the dinner table; brothers and parents agreed that retreating into your own world at family time was rude.
Such etiquette feels quaint now, as we each openly scroll our way through dinner.
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