On being understood
I had a conversation with a friend this morning who reached out because she’d been feeling down. As it happened, I had a gap between my “morning creative work” and my next set of meetings, and I’d been wondering how to spend the time.
So I messaged back and asked her to give me 10–15, but that I could chat. I made a cup of tea, finished getting dressed and headed outside to talk a little while listening.
I did my best to listen without interrupting, but just let her know how valid her feelings are (loneliness, sadness, grief). It can be tempting to try to make others feel better. But I focused on just being there for her and walking beside her (metaphorically) in letting her know she’s not alone.
Sometimes our socials fool us into thinking that everyone else is “doing it right” and that we are the only ones suffering. It’s a toxic positivity reel that highlights all the good in someone’s story or life. And while I understand the value of curation (and do it myself) I also know from my clients and friends that this existential loneliness is such a human quality. We all feel it at times, and some more than others.
Some of us feel this loneliness most when we are with other people, ironically. We deeply crave to share of ourselves, to connect with others, and to be understood.
This makes so much sense from an evolutionary biology perspective. Humans are here and survived largely because we were able to form communities of protection and care. And yet our current environments don’t always lend themselves to the bodily connections that our ancestors probably received more regularly.
We use words to convey these deep feelings, and I love words. And sometimes, they fall flat, and are deeply inadequate to convey our shared humanity and the aching in our hearts. The sensory integration that occurs when we receive a deep hug, or even a kind pat on the arm, is not a trivial thing. I sometimes even picture myself hugging a client and imagine this while I am hearing a difficult story.
I don’t know if my voice every embodies this hug, but I have started telling people when I take a deep breath: “I’m just letting myself sit with what you said for a moment.” Then they sit with it too, and hopefully take a deep breath.
All we want is to be seen and understood and accepted for who we are. And yet, why is this so hard to receive?
It is rare. It is a gift. And it requires us to slow down. That’s not easy for most of us. And I think it’s more essential than ever.
My friend relayed a quote to me, “grief is love with nowhere to go” and I could relate to that. When we have lost something we loved, whether a person, a job, an old way of being, or even a way we used to live, there is grief. And even if there’s something better on the other side of that, there’s still loss. I don’t think we honor that well in our culture.
It’s often sad that many other emotions mask grief, like anger. I sometimes wonder if the political world is driven by unresolved grief and the denial of deep feelings of loss. We want to solve for something. We don’t want to spent time “wallowing” in sadness.
But what if we just took 3–5 minutes to feel into that deep well of sadness? To touch our own hearts with our hands, and to give love and support to the part of ourselves that’s coping with loss. Could we talk to it? Could we say: “I see how deeply you’re hurting and I love you.”
It will likely feel silly at first. And yet the more I’ve practiced it, this kind and compassionate care for the parts of me that feel at sea, the better I feel.
Of course, having a compassionate witness is also beautiful. If that’s possible, please reach out. And when it is not, using a somatic and embodied approach can be one way to convey that understanding to our selves physically.
Be well, friends. We have heavy loads to bear. And we are in this together, whether we all sense and feel it or not.