Gen Y Speaks: We’re too afraid of disagreeing with each other, but here’s why we shouldn’t be

Can you remember the last time you disagreed with somebody? 
How did you tell them about it? What were you more concerned about — whether you were communicating your point effectively, or whether you were in danger of offending them or hurting their feelings? 
Did you tell them to their face? Or did you wait till you parted ways to drop them a text? 
Did you even tell them at all? Or did you confide your dissent only to trusted friends, knowing they would keep your secret?
On a recent trip with friends, we spent a week giggling our way through South Korea. 
We drove on the wrong lane in Jeju, tried raw marinated crab for the first time in Yeosu, and gorged ourselves on street food in Seoul. 
We slept on futons in a traditional Korean hotel and joked about being in our Jewel in the Palace era. We ziplined off the 24th floor of a Ramada hotel and made fun of ourselves for it on social media: “Your unemployed friends on a Tuesday afternoon”.
Wanting to spend more time together, we shelled out for an AirBnB large enough to accommodate us all. We got to know each other better over long conversations about our families and friends, our past lovers and partners, and our jobs (for real though, do you know what your friends actually do for work?).
We were having a good time. 
For dinner on our last night, someone suggested Korean BBQ (or, as it’s known there, BBQ). 
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that last-night dinners on overseas trips are special. People are worn in by then, happy but exhausted. Guards are let down; everything seems to draw out longer and lazier as we try to make the most of these last hours. 
The part of the dinner where we were actually eating food transitioned into the part where we picked at the remaining “courtesy” morsels, just to have an excuse to keep talking. 
A sensitive topic came up in conversation. Nothing new — we’re generally pretty comfortable with discussing all sorts of things with each other, and had been doing so throughout the entire trip.
One of the group voiced an opinion they described as “preference”. I felt it was prejudice — and I told them so, right then and there. 
A debate sparked right away — not heated, exactly, but it ramped up the longer it went on. The whole group got involved. Everybody wanted to share their take on it; everybody wanted to know what was behind each other’s take. 
Soon enough, other sensitive topics were drawn into the fray. Not being one to mince words, I once again expressed a contrary sentiment — and that’s when something snapped.
People lost control of their emotions. We talked over each other. Spoke in accusatory tones. Got personal.
It went on as we paid the bill and left the restaurant. 
It went on in the cab ride home.
It went on once we were back in our AirBnB.
All considered, it went on for nearly five hours, give or take. (There was definitely a moment or two where I lowkey regretted our halcyon decision to get that AirBnB together.)
What were we talking about? Frankly, it doesn’t matter. It could have been anything, really. 
What I did find myself thinking about long after that conversation had ended was the nature of disagreement.
It’s no surprise that a lot of people aren’t comfortable with disagreement — the very concept does inherently require some measure of tension or friction, after all. 
That discomfort is compounded several times over when it’s in relation to a sensitive topic, and understandably so. 
This is why politics and sexuality are big no-no’s for first-date conversations. Singaporeans, in particular, are notoriously apprehensive when it comes to talking about race and race-related issues. 
The key concerns are always the same: It’s too easy to offend; people are too easily offended.
But what does it really mean to offend, or to be offended? Surely there can be no harm in expressing a personal thought or sentiment as long as it’s supported with genuine, positive intent? 
What if what we’re really afraid of is disagreement itself? 
Humans are communal animals. No one likes feeling alone, or like we’re being forcibly divided or separated from others. This is the entire basis and appeal of social media: Connect with people whenever you want from wherever you are! Find others who like the same things you like, so you never have to like them alone! 
But all that communality cannot change the fact that we are individualised persons, each with our own thoughts and feelings. 
It’s what makes human connection so powerful and beautiful. 
It’s also the reason why we will never be able to create an environment, physical or virtual, that is completely free of disagreement.
To be fair, disagreement can be scary sometimes — but that doesn’t mean we have to be afraid of it. 
Picture two people living together in one house.
Disagreement doesn’t automatically mean one of them moving out into a different house. It can simply be the occupants working together to create a new room within the house — carving out space for more of their individual selves to fit under the same roof. 
In that sense, disagreement doesn’t have to mean opposition or divergence. Instead, it can be an avenue of diversification and deeper intimacy. 
The key to this distinction is intention: Are we seeking total alignment and affirmation for the sake of self-assurance, or are we seeking real and whole understanding of others’ perspectives? Are we willing to make room within ourselves to hold those perspectives, even if they may be different from what we want or believe?
In case you’re wondering, all friendships in our group remain alive and well. 
But towards the end of that long, long night, one of the group observed that it’s pretty rare for friends and other social groups to be able to disagree as intensely as we had done and still be able to carry on with the friendship or social connection. 
I can’t speak for each of them — but for me personally, it’s going to take a lot more than a difference in opinion to break me apart from someone I’ve made a decision to love. 
Perhaps it’s time to start trusting that the bonds we share with our loved ones are a lot stronger than we give them credit for.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Melissa Lee Suppiah is a deputy editor at TODAY where she oversees commentaries.