When I was an adolescent, time spent with my first girlfriend – a title very quickly rescinded – was as exhilarating as it was onerous. The cause of the former was straightforward, but that of the latter was specific to that juncture in my life: I felt that a beat of dead air was a solemn mark against me, and every moment must be filled with witty and memorable words. Before our meetings, I would tabulate, sometimes physically putting to paper, all the interesting, intriguing, titillating things I could mention. I treated hanging out like a state examination. You can imagine why she lunged at the first opportunity to become an ex.

But we remained – and remain – close friends, and some time after our ill-starred relationship ended, something indelible happened: we had our first real silence. Late in a balmy summer night, conversation extinguished itself and, for some reason, nothing else was said. I’ve had a lot of beautiful silences since then, but it remains the most poignant.

I was reminded of this experience by Emil Cioran, the brooding and sardonic Romanian French philosopher, who was actually capable of stringing together witty and memorable words. ‘True contact between beings,’ he wrote, ‘is established only by mute presence, by apparent non-communication, by that mysterious and wordless exchange which resembles inward prayer.’

Silences between people, of course, have all sorts of meanings, and Cioran is far from the only philosopher to write about silence. But here he incomparably evokes the strange intimacy that inheres in the best kinds of silence. Perhaps the next time you are fortunate enough to inhabit this kind of silence with someone important to you, you’ll think of ‘true contact’.

Lately, I’ve been trying to be a better listener by using Carl Rogers’s technique of ‘unconditional positive regard’ (UPR), an idea I learned about on a recent psychology course. UPR refers to nonjudgmental acceptance of, and care for, a person – regardless of whether you agree with the things they say, think and do. It doesn’t suggest that you ignore or permit harmful behaviour, only that an individual should not have conditions they need to meet for them to be worthy of warmth and support.

When I first heard about UPR, it struck me that one reason it might be so powerful is that we very rarely come across this nonjudgmental approach in our daily lives. From socialising to contributing in meetings, it can often feel as though we’re being assessed in various ways. I thought about how comforting it is when you know you’re being held in a positive regard that isn’t going to waver, even if you have an off day or make an error – and whether this was something I could more intentionally foster for the people around me.

In practice, this has meant resisting the urge to jump in with advice, which I’ve noticed is often infused with judgment, and attempting to listen without necessarily looking for a solution. It’s revealed more of my own biases and thought patterns – such as the way I sometimes default to ‘I would/wouldn’t have done X’, rather than understanding where the other person is coming from. It’s meant asking more questions and being increasingly mindful of my nonverbal communication, such as avoiding facial expressions that communicate surprise or disagreement. Granted, I fail every day to uphold the aims of UPR, but the process of attempting it has increased my capacity for compassion – and a happy side-effect is that I seem to judge myself a little less now, too.

There were about seven birds of different colours that I used to see wobble around my neighbour’s urban chicken run. I frequently passed it on the sidewalk. Peering through the fence, I’d feel a bit of unease. I was a not-quite-vegetarian then: I’d given up some meat due to concerns about animal welfare, but still ate chicken. Yet here I was, charmed by these same feathered creatures.

What I felt was cognitive dissonance, a concept first described by the psychologist Leon Festinger in the 1950s. It’s the psychological discomfort someone experiences when what they know or believe is inconsistent with what they do. For instance, you might believe it’s wrong to lie but do it anyway, or know that a major corporation is harming people but still buy its stuff – and that might cause you some internal disharmony. Sometimes, people deal with that by rationalising their behaviour (eg, ‘everyone else does it’). Other times, they change.

A new paper by the researchers David Fechner and Sebastian Isbanner suggests that my increasing cognitive dissonance may have put me over the fence (so to speak) into vegetarianism. They compared several groups of people: those who ate meat and had no plans to change; those who were considering no longer eating meat; and those who had actually made the change. They found that cognitive dissonance (gauged by how uneasy, uncomfortable, etc one felt thinking about eating meat) was higher in the potential-vegetarian group than among the meat-eaters, and higher still among vegetarians.

Other factors differed too, such as how feasible a vegetarian diet seemed to them. But according to the researchers, the results suggest that cognitive dissonance helped to explain why some people who believed in vegetarianism’s benefits actually adopted it. When it comes to morally loaded behaviours, believing might not be enough. Our conflicts might have to stare us in the face.