I am not convinced that the only right choices are the ones we feel like making. In life, there are things we want to do and things we recognise as important even when, at that moment, we would rather be somewhere else. If we always waited until we felt like it before making a choice, many people would receive our attention only when we had nothing more interesting to do.
That is why I use a deliberately provocative expression: “healthy hypocrisy.” I do not mean deception, double-dealing or affection performed to gain something in return. I mean a willingness to keep some of our impatience to ourselves, to give up a little convenience for once, to take part graciously in something that matters to another person, even if it would not be our first choice.
Perhaps, on closer inspection, it is not even hypocrisy. It is good manners, respect, the ability to distinguish between what we feel like doing and what we want to give importance to. But the provocation is precisely what interests me: if being “authentic” means always obeying our immediate desires, then I prefer a little of this healthy hypocrisy to a sincerity that leaves other people alone.
Sincerity cannot become an excuse
“I don't feel like it” is a perfectly legitimate thing to say. It describes how we feel, and we should be allowed to say it. The problem begins when it becomes, on its own, a sufficient explanation for every choice: I don't feel like it, so I won't do it; I would rather do something else, so I need not consider anything else.
I truly understand that a conversation can be boring, that we may not particularly enjoy someone's company, that our usual plans may seem more appealing. I do not believe we can order someone to enjoy themselves. We cannot demand a feeling, and it would be pointless to ask for enthusiasm that is not there.
We can, however, ask for respectful behaviour. I may not be eager to take part, yet still choose to listen, ask a question, give some of my time. I am not necessarily pretending that this is my favourite way to spend it. I am recognising that a person's worth is not measured by their ability to entertain me.
Not everything we do without feeling like it is false. Sometimes it comes from consideration. And consideration is a serious reason to do something, not a less worthy version of spontaneous affection.
The exception that says: today, you matter
Our routines matter. We have our own space, our friendships, the moments we look forward to. I would not want a life in which we continually had to give up what we enjoy to prove we were decent people. For me, the point is knowing when an occasion deserves an exception.
Some gatherings can easily happen again; others come around rarely. There are regular appointments, and there are moments someone has been looking forward to in a special way. Treating them all alike means overlooking an important difference: what is merely one more commitment to me may be the moment another person has been waiting for.
We do not need to turn every occasion into a ceremony. We need to ask ourselves: how much does this matter to this person? What would it really cost me to be there? Can I rearrange something I could just as easily do another time? Have I made a commitment that someone is counting on?
Sometimes the answer will be a reasonable no. At other times, we will realise that we are defending a habit as though it were an absolute necessity. Making room, then, can become a very simple way of saying: today, what matters to you matters to me too.
Being there without making others regret it
The way we spend that time matters too. If I keep making it clear that I would rather leave, watching the clock, retreating into a hostile silence or taking refuge in my phone, I can make the other person feel guilty for having wanted me there.
This is where I see the value of a little restraint. Not every sigh needs to be heard, not every moment of boredom needs to be announced, not every preference needs to take centre stage. Holding back a rude gesture does not mean giving up our personality. It means choosing what to do with a feeling instead of handing it to others without regard for them.
I am not asking for a dazzling performance. Small gestures are often enough: greeting someone attentively, listening without rushing, taking an interest in something we would not have chosen to talk about. If we know we cannot be there, or will have to leave early, we can say so clearly and in good time, without leaving others to discover it after they have already arranged everything.
Respect does not demand that I feel something I do not feel. It asks me not to behave as though what someone else feels were irrelevant. It is a distinction I would like to remember even on days when I am tired, distracted or have little to give.
Loving our children also means teaching them to notice others
What gives me the most pause is how adults respond. Sometimes, out of an excess of love, from tiredness or because we want to avoid a disagreement, we end up justifying every lack of consideration: that's just how they are, they have their own interests, they prefer being with their friends. All understandable. But understanding a preference does not mean approving every behaviour that follows from it.
I would not raise this to condemn a young person or define a family by a single gesture. Growing up also means learning to see what we have not yet learned to notice. That is precisely why a parent should be able to say calmly: I understand what you would like to do, but look at what this moment means to the person in front of you.
Giving up on asking for any consideration is not necessarily a greater expression of love. It can mean leaving a child without a skill they will need in friendships, relationships and work: understanding that other people have expectations, schedules and needs, even when they do not match their own.
And the lesson must begin with us. We cannot ask our children to put their phones aside if we are the first to keep our eyes down when they speak to us. We cannot demand attention for the things we enjoy while always dismissing their interests as irrelevant. Teaching respect loses its credibility when it goes only one way.
Respect does not entitle us to all of someone else's time
There is a limit to this argument that I consider important. A bond does not authorise us to lay constant claim to someone else's life. Being parents, relatives or friends does not give us an unlimited right to someone's presence. If every request becomes a compulsory exception, there is no longer any exception at all.
Those who want company must also know how to ask for it: “It would mean a lot to me if you were there.” A clear request is better than a test of affection whose rules the other person discovers only after failing it. We can agree on a reasonable amount of time, listen when there is a real obstacle, and accept that saying no does not always mean not caring.
Not everyone has the same energy or finds social situations equally easy. Not every absence is selfishness, and not every visible difficulty is bad manners. Consideration calls for some understanding of the circumstances, not passing judgement from a distance. And no one should be required to endure humiliation or harmful situations in the name of good manners.
Yet the original question still stands: when there is no serious obstacle, when the request is occasional and reasonable, why should my usual pleasure automatically matter more than the joy I could give someone? Being free to choose does not make every choice equally thoughtful.
Enjoyment can also come after the choice
We often think that affection must first be felt and then lead to a gesture. The reverse can happen too: we choose to be there, begin to listen and discover something our haste had kept us from seeing. A conversation takes an unexpected turn; someone tells us something about themselves; an ordinary moment becomes a memory.
It does not always happen, and I do not want to promise that duty will turn into pleasure every time. We may indeed be bored. But the value of being there does not depend solely on how much we enjoyed ourselves. It may lie in someone having felt that they mattered, without having to compete with all our other options.
I believe that growing up also means learning to choose between different desires: the immediate pleasure of doing what we had planned, and the deeper desire to be someone others can count on. That second desire is ours too. It is not always something the world imposes on us from outside.
Seen this way, healthy hypocrisy can become a very concrete form of sincerity. A sincerity that does not display every impulse, but tries to stay true to the importance we say we give to people.
What I would like to leave my children
My children, I am not asking you to enjoy every gathering or to be available all the time. I hope you will hold on to your friendships, your passions and time of your own. But I would like you to recognise when a small sacrifice can become a great act of consideration.
Before saying “I don't feel like it,” try adding a question: “How much does this matter to the other person?” Not to make yourselves automatically feel obliged, but to decide after looking beyond yourselves too. We exercise our freedom more thoughtfully when we understand what our choices leave others with.
I also want to thank you for one particular act of consideration: I have never had to ask you to stay because we had a guest. I do not take that small thing for granted. To me, it means you have been attentive to someone's presence without waiting to be told, and it is precisely that sensitivity I hope you will carry with you.
When you choose to be there, do it kindly, without presenting a bill for your sacrifice. When you cannot, say so respectfully, without inventing enthusiasm or an excuse. And ask for the same consideration for your own time: in a good relationship, it is not always one person who gives something up and another who receives.
Do not measure love only by what comes naturally to you. There is love, too, in saying: I feel like doing something else, but today I choose to be here for you. If that is hypocrisy, it is the kind that does not conceal contempt, but makes room for consideration.
Papy