Compassion is Kind, Not Nice: That’s what makes it challenging.

What our discomfort with conflict reveals about the limits of "being nice".

“I’m not that interested in ‘nice’, to be honest,” I said to a friend one morning over coffee.

She blinked, then laughed. “That’s an odd thing to hear from someone who teaches compassion for a living.”

The irony wasn’t lost on either of us. But I wasn’t joking.

I’ve spent much of my professional life studying and teaching compassion - in clinical settings, on meditation cushions, in workplaces trying to build more humane cultures. You’d think that would make me a champion of niceness. But over the years, I’ve come to believe that niceness is often a substitute for the real thing. And a poor one at that.

Niceness is the socially sanctioned cousin of kindness. It’s agreeable, unthreatening, eager to please. It doesn’t cause waves. In many environments, niceness is what we’re rewarded for - especially those of us socialised to be accommodating, non-confrontational, and likeable. And yet, for all its cultural capital, niceness is a brittle posture. It collapses under pressure. It conceals far more than it reveals.

I’ve worked in teams where niceness was the dominant currency. There was no yelling, no overt conflict - just a quiet undercurrent of avoidance, vague decisions, and tension that never quite reached the surface. It was, in theory, a “pleasant” place to work. In practice, it felt emotionally suffocating. There were no real conversations. No clarity. No challenge. No trust.

This, I’ve come to realise, is what happens when we confuse being nice with being kind.

Kindness is something else entirely. Where niceness smooths over, kindness cuts through. Where niceness avoids discomfort, kindness can walk straight into it. Where niceness tells you what you want to hear, kindness risks telling you what you need to hear. Not out of cruelty, but out of care.

It’s no accident that we often conflate the two. From a young age, many of us are taught that making others uncomfortable is inherently bad; that politeness is preferable to honesty, and that the appearance of harmony should be preserved at all costs. Girls, in particular, are socialised into niceness as a form of safety: be pleasant, be agreeable, be small. Say yes. Say thank you. Don’t make a scene.

By adulthood, these patterns are so deeply embedded that it can feel almost transgressive to say something direct. To challenge a friend. To decline a request. To express anger, disappointment, or even firm preference. We worry that to do so would make us unkind.

But kindness, real kindness, has a backbone. It’s not passive. It’s not performative. And it’s not always comfortable - for the giver or the receiver. This, indeed, is often the litmus test of compassion. Am I committed to this, because it will alleviate suffering, even if it causes discomfort in the short term? Or am I doing this to preserve my reputation, keep the peace, or win approval?

A compassionate parent sets limits, even when it results in tears. A genuinely loving friend names the thing no one else will say. A kind colleague gives constructive feedback, not empty reassurance. These acts require discernment, timing, and tact. But they also require courage: the courage to value someone’s long-term wellbeing over their short-term approval.

That’s what makes kindness harder than niceness. And more valuable.

It also explains why we so often avoid it. Niceness is easier. It protects us from risk - of conflict, of rejection, of being seen as “difficult”. It lets us keep the peace, at least on the surface. But the cost is often a shallow kind of connection, one that leaves unspoken tensions to calcify in the dark.

We all know what this feels like. The friendship where you can’t quite say what you really think. The workplace where no one ever gets clear feedback. The relationship that functions more like an ongoing truce than a place of growth. These are spaces governed by niceness, not kindness. And they are often profoundly lonely.

To practise kindness is to choose something more demanding - and more meaningful. It’s to recognise that real care includes challenge. That truth can coexist with tenderness. That people deserve more from us than just our pleasantries.

Of course, not all situations call for confrontation. Sometimes, softening is the kindest thing we can do. Sometimes silence, too, can be a form of grace. But when kindness does require us to speak - when it asks us to set boundaries, to risk rupture, to show someone what they don’t want to see - we would do well to listen.

Kindness will not always be well-received. It won’t always be reciprocated. But unlike niceness, it is a form of care that can survive discomfort. Even be deepened by it.

We live in a world that often mistakes being liked for being loving. Niceness, in that world, is a safe bet. But kindness is what allows relationships to deepen, systems to evolve, and people to grow.

If compassion means anything at all, it has to mean this: not the comfort of being liked, but the courage to show up in ways that are honest, human, and true.