You Talk Too Much.

Part 1

What do you do for work? Often a common early question in my first session with clients. Five minutes later he's still talking. I couldn't tell you what he was saying, but I can tell you what I said: 'Woosh...that's a lot of words”. At this stage of my career I can usually pull off something that sounds this "insulting" with an affable tone and a sense of humor. Maybe 50% of the time, the client says "I've heard that before." The other 50% seem some shade of shocked, embarrassed, or mildly angry.

The truth is, for so many of the men I work with, they do talk too much.

The monologue. The explaining. The lecture. The derailing. The minutiae.

All different types, same outcome—they lose the plot and, more importantly, the audience.

Let me illustrate.

You ask your friend about a recent soccer game. He begins to share, in excruciating detail, his experience—from the drive to the soccer game, to the game itself, what he thought the team should do differently. Three minutes in you're thinking "I just asked how it was." Then: "How do I get out of this without being rude?" You're left feeling bored, frustrated, exhausted. And your thoughts about your friend: annoying, boring, self-centered. He has no idea.

You're a kid and you want to ask dad for help on your project, but you know what's about to come. His expertise, his lecture, his critique. It will take three times as long and you'll walk out feeling stupid and angry with the thought "you idiot. Never ask dad for help again."

You're a wife and you want to talk about making a purchase. Finances are hard to discuss and you're not sure he's on the same page. You dread what's about to come. And it happens, of course. The opinion takes five minutes—everything he thinks. Then when you share yours, he has to go again. Repeating, explaining in detail where you don't get it, why it's a wrong idea. Any further comment from you—usually brief—and he needs another five minutes to dismantle it. The thought: "Why do I talk to him?" Or, worse, "I hate him." And you feel enraged and helpless.

The friend stops asking. The kid stops seeking help. The wife stops trying to talk. And the guy doing this? He has no idea why his relationships feel distant.

If this is you, you might be thinking: they don't listen, they need the information, they asked so I'm answering.

Here's the truth: your intention doesn't matter. You don't intend to frustrate, bore, or embarrass. But that's the impact. Overtalking is self-centered, inconsiderate, and deeply isolating. More words don't clarify—they confuse, bore and enrage.

But why? Why do so many men struggle with this? As with so many things, it begins in development.

It's anxiety. When emotions are involved, you learned early on that talking endlessly—especially when it derails into other topics—soothes the anxiety. You get lost in your thoughts and words, and it counters the discomfort. Filling space with words means you don't have to feel what's underneath. There's nothing spontaneous to respond to, which means you never have to be vulnerable.

That first session when I ask "What do you do for work?" and five minutes later you're still talking? That's anxiety. There's pressure. Fear about what I'm going to ask next. It's a counseling appointment, you don't know me, but you know you're here because something's wrong. So you fill the space. You control what gets talked about by never stopping.

It's control. When you're talking, the other person isn't. And if they can't get a word in, there's no room for disagreement. You wear them down. The thought driving it: "If I explain it enough, they'll have to agree." It's coercive, even if you don't mean it that way.

The husband dismantling his wife's ideas about the purchase? He's controlling the outcome. If he can out-talk her, out-explain her, he doesn't have to sit with the discomfort of her having a different perspective.

It's a lack of attunement. If you weren't taught reciprocity as a kid—a back and forth—you don't suddenly learn it later in relationships. If dad or mom lectured endlessly and there was no room for your voice, you carried that pattern into adulthood. You never learned to read social cues, to recognize when someone is done listening, to notice when you've lost your audience.

The dad lecturing his kid? He's repeating what was done to him. But here's the twist: he hated it as a kid, so he learned to tune out. And now, when he's the one talking, he tunes out his audience the same way. He genuinely doesn't know he's overwhelming his child. He thinks he's being helpful. He has no idea when to stop.

The friend going on about the soccer game? Same thing. He doesn't read your cues. He doesn't notice you checked out two minutes ago. He thinks more detail makes it a better story.

And underneath all of it, there's often insecurity. The belief that competence is measured through information. That if you show someone everything you know, they'll find you valuable. So you keep talking, proving your worth, never realizing the opposite is happening—they're pulling away.

The truth is—you may talk too much. And it isn't a personality quirk, a guy thing, or just someone else's opinion. It's isolating.

The people in your life only have a few options: tolerate it (which is unfair to them), stop asking questions, stop sharing with you, or brace themselves before every conversation. You have no idea why your relationships feel distant.

So if this is you, the question is: how do you stop?

We'll get to that next.