We often demand transparency when what we really want is honesty.
How to Trust: A Guide to Transparency and Honesty!
A few days ago, a new friend offered me some unexpected wisdom: "Transparency is telling people what will happen. Honesty is telling them what has already been done."
It was one of those observations that seemed, at first, so straightforward that I could have dismissed it, but then it was 1 AM, and somehow everything was deep then. The more I reflected on it, the more I realised the layers of depth it held—and how often we confuse the two in life.
This distinction, subtle yet meaningful, lingered in my mind. We live in a world that prizes both transparency and honesty. Politicians promise transparency in government affairs, and partners in relationships are urged to be honest. Yet how often do these qualities get tangled, as if they mean the same thing?
My friend's insight reminded me that while they complement one another, they aren't interchangeable. Each plays a distinct role in navigating trust and communication with others and ourselves.
Transparency feels like a promise. It concerns what lies ahead, intentions, and expectations. To be transparent means to lay your cards on the table before the game even begins, inviting people to see what you plan to do and how you're going to do it.
In relationships, this might look like saying, "Hey, I'll be working late all week, just so you know." It's a kind of preemptive clarity—a commitment to not letting others guess what's happening behind the scenes.
At its core, transparency is about foresight. It allows people to anticipate events or choices, which can foster a sense of security. Knowing what's coming gives us the illusion that we have control. It's why companies publish their financials or why governments make public their decisions before enacting them.
Transparency is a measure of accountability, saying, "I have nothing to hide." But it doesn't necessarily invite dialogue—it's more of a bulletin board announcement than an invitation to reflect.
One could argue that transparency isn't as demanding as honesty. It involves telling people what you plan to do but doesn't require you to revisit your actions or admit to past mistakes. You can be transparent without ever being vulnerable.
Honesty invites vulnerability.
On the other hand, honesty looks backwards. It asks us to account for what has happened—what we did, said, or failed to do.
Honesty often means exposing ourselves to discomfort because it demands that we acknowledge past actions, even the less flattering ones. In a way, honesty is about repair, while transparency is about prevention.
Imagine, for example, that you make a mistake at work. Being honest would involve saying, "I missed the deadline, and it's my fault." It requires reckoning with the truth of the past, no matter how inconvenient. And it's this very nature that makes honesty harder than transparency.
Honesty confronts us with the weight of our actions and their consequences. It opens the door to blame, forgiveness, or judgement—things transparency tries to sidestep.
Honesty is also deeply tied to vulnerability. When we are honest, we expose ourselves. There's no telling how others will react, but the act demonstrates trust: trust in the other person's capacity to handle the truth and our ability to face their response.
After my friend's observation, it became clear that these two values—transparency and honesty—don't always align. You can be transparent without being honest, and you can be honest without being transparent.
The former feels like a controlled release of information: "Here's what you need to know going forward." The latter is more reflective: "Here's what I need to tell you about what's already happened."
Think of relationships—romantic, platonic, or professional. One might say, "I'll be travelling for work next month" (transparent), but leave out that they've already been considering taking a new job elsewhere (less honest). Or they might say, "I've been meaning to tell you that I already accepted a job offer" (honest) but fail to mention their reasons for doing so ahead of time (lacking transparency).
In these situations, the gap between the two can create mistrust, not because someone was lying but because they left something crucial unsaid.
We often demand transparency when what we really want is honesty.
For example, when a partner says, "Why didn't you tell me earlier?" They're not just asking for future openness. They're expressing a need to understand the past—a need for honesty.
Similarly, when companies pledge to be transparent with customers, consumers often desire not just future disclosures but also an honest reckoning with past mistakes.
It's tempting to assume that one is more important than the other—that honesty, with all its moral weight, trumps transparency. But the truth is, we need both.
Transparency allows people to plan, to feel informed, and to move forward with clarity. On the other hand, honesty helps us make sense of the past and build trust by showing that we can own up to our actions.
In healthy relationships—whether personal or professional—the ideal is a blend of both. We appreciate it when someone gives us a heads-up about their intentions (transparency), but we also need them to be candid when things don't go according to plan (honesty).
Trust is built when people feel that the future and the past are shared spaces, not guarded secrets.
Too much transparency without honesty can feel like manipulation. It's easy to say, "Here's what I plan to do," while withholding the fact that you've already done something contradictory. Conversely, honesty without transparency can feel like damage control—a confession made too late to be helpful.
My friend's observation taught me that communication requires intentionality. It's not enough to just be transparent about future plans; we also need to be honest about past actions. More importantly, we need to learn when each is appropriate.
There are moments when transparency can prevent misunderstandings before they arise.
A parent telling their child, "We're moving to a new city next year," offers a sense of predictability, reducing anxiety about the unknown. But there are also moments when honesty is what matters most.
Admitting, "I should have told you earlier, but I was afraid," can repair a breach in trust more effectively than promises of future transparency.
The challenge is that honesty and transparency often have different emotional stakes. Transparency may feel safer—it's future-focused and less likely to expose past mistakes. Honesty, however, demands courage. It asks us to be vulnerable, admit where we've fallen short, and trust that the other person can handle the truth.
Reflecting on the conversation with my friend, I realised that this distinction between transparency and honesty isn't just a matter of semantics. It's a framework for thinking about trust—how it's built, maintained, and sometimes broken. Being transparent lets people see what's coming; being honest allows them to understand what's already happened. Both are necessary for trust to thrive.
My friend's insight gave me more than just a clever distinction. It offered a new way of thinking about my relationships—with others and with myself. Sometimes, I need to be more transparent, letting people know what I intend to do. Other times, I need to be more honest, acknowledging where I've already stumbled. And perhaps the real challenge—and the real beauty—is learning to do both.
