Ember's Writing

As an autistic British trans woman being in Nonviolent Communication (NVC) communities often feels like entering a Kafkaesque labyrinth. I find myself treading on eggshells, sensing pervasive microaggressions, and experiencing subtle gaslighting—especially when people collaborate in private. It's disorienting, surreal even, to be in spaces where the cultures meant to support connection seem to obfuscate and maintain existing power dynamics.

The term “Kafkaesque” applies this paradoxical reality—a world where systems are opaque, rules are ever-changing, and a sense of alienation and powerlessness. In the context of NVC, which aspires to nurture understanding and dismantle oppressive structures, experiencing such dissonance is particularly jarring. I have deeply studied the books, videos, recordings and foundations of NVC, and have some sense of getting something of an understanding – so its confusing to me when I experience NVC cultures so very different from what I imagine the might be. I wonder if we have read the same material? I wonder have I misunderstood?

I am aware that often I am situated as misunderstanding things as an autistic person, which is an unfortunate effect of the neurohegemony, the medicalisation of neurodifference, because as Marshall himself points out in his first book, its not that I got it wrong (or that I am ‘ill’ or diseased etc), its just that those situated in the dominator culture, the neurotypicals, got a different understanding.

The sensation of treading on eggshells emerges when open dialogue is stifled by an unspoken expectation to maintain harmony at all costs. This often leads me to self-censor, fearing that voicing my concerns or challenging the status quo might disrupt the fragile peace. The fear of causing discomfort becomes a barrier to authenticity, resulting in a veneer of tranquility that conceals underlying tensions. The weirdest experience is when others claim a lack of knowledge of the underlying tensions, thus situating them as my problem.

I recall a poignant moment during an NVC practice group meeting. We were in a different room than usual, sitting in stillness and silence. After some time, the lights—controlled by a motion sensor—switched off. In the fading dusk light, there was a collective sigh, and we continued to speak, careful not to move, prioritising the darkness over the harsh office lighting. One by one, each woman shared how impactful the normal lighting was for them. I wondered why none of us, myself included, had mentioned our needs before. of course I had mentioned my preference for different lighting, even going so far as to buy some lights and bring them each time. But without the solidarity I gave up after a while. So even in this NVC practice space, we ended up treading softly around our discomforts. But that evening, together we mourned and explored the subject of belonging and how it contributes to the sense of treading on eggshells—of feeling alone in a group, of not mattering, and it was beautiful work that took the happenstance of a room change and a movement sensor to manifest.

Microaggressions compound this atmosphere. Subtle, often unconscious comments or actions contribute to marginalization. For instance, when group members collaborate in private without transparency, it casts a subtle shadow. It can evoke a sense of gaslighting, where I begin to question my perceptions and reality.

These dynamics seem antithetical to NVC's core values. NVC encourages expressing feelings and needs openly to support genuine connection. However, when the environment feels Kafkaesque, the very tools of NVC can be co-opted to perpetuate silence and maintain existing hierarchies. Sticking strictly to feelings and needs can sometimes act as a means to avoid deeper discussions or meaningful authenticity. It's a tricky, risky dance—balancing authenticity versus privacy, belonging versus naming needs, integrity versus justification.

Can the experiences of treading on eggshells, microaggressions, and gaslighting within a group be seen as Kafkaesque? In my experience, they coalesce into a bewildering reality that echoes the absurdity and alienation found in Kafka's works. It's a space where my efforts to seek clarity and understanding are met with obfuscation and denial, leaving me feeling trapped in an incomprehensible culture.

Navigating this requires immense resilience and a recommitment to the principles of NVC—not as they are superficially applied, but as tools for radical honesty and transformation. This work invites the courage to name these dynamics, to bring the unseen into the light, and to invite others into a dialogue that seeks to unravel the convoluted threads of oppression woven into our interactions. I regret how hard this journey has been for me as I move towards self-validation, especially as a trans person in a culture that often denies its systemic transphobia.

In such an environment, citing statistics to support one's viewpoint can exacerbate divisions. This practice can be counterproductive because it shifts the focus away from personal experiences and authentic expressions of feelings and needs. While statistics have their place, they can be used to validate preconceived notions, reinforcing fixed ideas and judgments about groups of people. This reliance on data can inadvertently depersonalise the conversation, reducing individuals to numbers rather than unique beings with their own emotions and needs. Furthermore, statistics can claim authority in a way that upholds dominator culture—relying on an objective “truth” that can suppress subjective experiences. All statistics are less objective than they might initially appear, each framed within its own positionality, assumptions, and funding.

NVC emphasises the importance of observing without evaluating, focusing on concrete actions rather than generalisations. Yet, how hard that is! Especially when statistics are used to make a point in emotionally charged contexts, they risk making evaluations disguised as observations.

As a footnote, whilst I did enjoy Kafka, I much preferred Borges and highly recommend The Lottery in Babylon