Discretion has become unfashionable. We celebrate vulnerability and authenticity, but seem less interested in restraint, privacy and sitting with uncomfortable feelings without broadcasting them.
Prince Harry says he wants to reconcile with his family. Yet he continues to discuss his grief, personal struggles and family relationships in interviews watched by millions.
His latest public reflections on the death of his mother and the difficulties of navigating life within the royal family have again attracted considerable attention.
I have no reason to doubt the sincerity of Harry’s grief, nor his desire to repair relationships with his family. But I do wonder how reconciliation is helped by repeatedly inviting the public into matters that are, ultimately, deeply personal.
Harry is, of course, an unusually public example of something that has become remarkably ordinary.
Scroll through social media and you will find people recounting the failings of their parents, exposing disagreements with former partners and explaining why they have cut particular family members out of their lives. Influencers have built careers around sharing intimate details of relationships, often presenting these disclosures as acts of courage, empowerment or personal growth.
And audiences love it. We follow the stories, take sides and offer encouragement to people we have never met, based on accounts we have little capacity to verify.
There is something uncomfortable about this collective enthusiasm for other people’s private lives, particularly when those being discussed have not agreed to participate.
As a psychologist, I am certainly not suggesting that people should suppress difficult emotions or remain silent about harmful experiences. Speaking openly about distress can be enormously beneficial. For some, particularly those who have experienced abuse or mistreatment, finding their voice is an important part of recovery.
But the idea that sharing our experiences is always psychologically healthy deserves closer examination.
In clinical practice, we distinguish between emotional expression and emotional regulation. The former involves identifying and communicating what we feel. The latter requires us to manage those feelings in ways that are constructive, proportionate and appropriate to the circumstances.
They are not the same thing.
A person can be extraordinarily articulate about their emotional pain while remaining poor at managing it. They may describe every perceived injustice in remarkable detail, yet struggle to tolerate disagreement, acknowledge their own contribution to conflict or consider another person’s perspective.
Indeed, repeatedly revisiting grievances can sometimes reinforce distress rather than resolve it. Psychologists refer to this as rumination, a pattern of repetitive thinking that keeps people focused on upsetting experiences without necessarily moving them towards a solution.
Relationships are rarely straightforward
Social media introduces another complication. Public disclosure is frequently rewarded with attention, sympathy and validation. When someone describes a difficult relationship, the response is often immediate and overwhelmingly supportive. Strangers encourage them to protect their peace, establish boundaries and remove toxic people from their lives.
Sometimes that advice may be entirely appropriate. But relationships are rarely as straightforward as the accounts presented online.
Families are complicated. People disappoint one another, misunderstand intentions, behave selfishly and occasionally say things they deeply regret. Most relationships contain competing perspectives, and the capacity to recognise this is an important part of emotional maturity.
Yet public storytelling tends to collapse all complexity in favour of clear heroes and villains. Nuance rarely attracts the same enthusiasm as a compelling account of betrayal.
Once we have publicly established ourselves as the injured party, changing our position can become difficult. An audience that has encouraged our anger may be considerably less enthusiastic about forgiveness, compromise or reconciliation.
“There is considerable dignity in choosing not to tell a story, particularly when telling it might hurt someone else.”
We have also become increasingly comfortable using psychological language to justify public disclosures. Words such as trauma, boundaries, narcissism and toxicity are now part of everyday conversation.
But these concepts are regularly misused. A boundary, for example, is not a demand that everyone else accept our interpretation of events. Nor does experiencing emotional pain automatically make our perspective the most accurate one.
Perhaps most troubling is the growing assumption that withholding personal information is somehow dishonest or emotionally unhealthy.
Discretion has become rather unfashionable. We celebrate vulnerability and authenticity, but seem less interested in restraint, privacy and the capacity to sit with uncomfortable feelings without immediately broadcasting them.
There is considerable dignity in choosing not to tell a story, particularly when telling it might hurt someone else.
Yes, there are circumstances in which speaking publicly is necessary, including to expose wrongdoing or protect others. But there is a difference between disclosure that serves a meaningful purpose and disclosure that simply invites an audience into an unresolved personal conflict.
Emotional maturity is not measured by how much we are prepared to reveal about ourselves. Sometimes it is demonstrated by knowing what to keep private, when to stop talking and whose dignity deserves protecting alongside our own.
If Prince Harry genuinely wants reconciliation, that is ultimately a matter for him and his family, not the millions of strangers who have followed their disagreements.
But I suspect much of that audience is rather more interested in the family feud than its resolution. A reconciled Harry, with no more grievances to air, would surely attract considerably less attention. And one has to wonder whether Harry himself is prepared to risk that.
