Questions I’ve been sitting with lately… about support and the aches we carry

Lately, I’ve found myself sitting with a series of questions… not ones I’m trying to solve, but ones I’m learning to stay with. They’ve been shaped by my work, my own experiences, and the quiet moments where I’ve noticed what happens when pain is shared… and how it’s received. These are some of those questions:

What have I been noticing lately about ‘support’?

Lately, I’ve been noticing how uncomfortable people can become when faced with the kinds of aches we carry—not physical aches, but the ones that live in our hearts, our soul.

The kind that comes after a painful relationship rupture.Or the quiet devastation of witnessing something tender and senseless—like a bird searching for its mate that won’t return.Or even the moments where the darkness feels so heavy that being here doesn’t feel possible.

What I’ve noticed is that when these things are spoken out loud—when someone responds honestly to “how are you?”—they are often met with a kind of gentle glossing over. “I’m sorry that happened.” “I hope things get better.” “Try to focus on the positive.”

I’ve said these things too, in the past. I know I have. And I’m trying not to say them anymore.

More and more, I’m noticing how these responses—while well-intentioned—can leave someone sitting alone in the very thing they were trying to share.

What tends to happen when people are faced with someone else’s pain?

There is often an urge to fix.

To lift the person out of it.To remind them of what has helped before.

To redirect toward something lighter, more hopeful, more manageable.

Even within therapeutic spaces, this can sound like:

“You’ve gotten through this before—let’s remember what helped last time.”

And while this isn’t inherently wrong… when it comes too quickly, it can miss something essential.

It can move us away from the moment before we’ve had the chance to feel seen within it.

Before the ache has been acknowledged.

Before the person has felt, even briefly, “you’re here with me… you get it.”

Without that, even the most helpful suggestion can land as distance rather than support.

How does that feel for the person who is in the ache?

It can feel exposing… and then quietly silencing.

There can be a kind of embarrassment that follows honesty.A soft retreat into thoughts like: maybe it’s just me… maybe I’m too much… maybe I shouldn’t have said that.

Sometimes, what happens next is a kind of performance.

“Oh yes, you’re right—I do feel better after that walk.”

The mask returns.

But inside, the ache is still there.

And the person across from you may feel relieved… because they no longer have to sit in it.

But the one who shared it?You. Me. We’re left holding it alone.

I want to be clear—there are times when gentle redirection is supportive and needed.But when we move there before someone feels seen, witnessed, and understood… we risk losing them.

Why do I think people struggle to sit with the aches?

I don’t think it comes from a lack of care.

Often, it’s fear.

Fear of not knowing what to say.

Fear that if they truly stop and listen, they might feel it too.

Fear of their own ache rising to the surface.

We also live in a culture that moves quickly.

One that values solutions over presence.

One that speaks about “holding space,” but doesn’t always embody what that actually asks of us.

Because to truly sit with someone when their heart is aching requires something slower, quieter, and far less certain.

What does it actually look like to sit with someone in their ache?

It looks like allowing two things to exist at once.

The ache…and the experience of being with.

I’ve been lucky enough to have someone sit with me in the depths of sadness—at a time where I had lost any sense of direction, meaning, or hope.

And while we sat there, in the heaviness of it… we were met with something unexpected.

A pod of dolphins, playing in the waves in front of us.Just frolicking—what looked like pure joy and connection.

And there we were.Holding both.

The ache didn’t disappear.The beauty didn’t cancel out the pain.

Both existed, side by side.

When sitting with someone in their ache, before redirecting or offering a positive reframe, it might sound like: “I’m here.”“Tell me more.”“You make sense.”

It is a willingness to sit beside someone without trying to move them somewhere else.

To let their emotions—energy in motion—move through the body in their own time, without interruption or urgency.

To communicate, in words or presence:

You are not too much.

What you feel matters.

I can be with you here.

Even when what is being shared feels uncomfortable, messy, or hard to hear.

What would I want someone whose heart is aching to know?

What you feel matters.

What you notice matters.

Your pain does not need to be rushed, fixed, or softened to be acceptable.

Yes—there may be parts of me that wish I could take the pain away from you…

And also, I can choose to stay.

To sit beside you.

To listen.

To hold space.

To be on the other end of the phone.

Not to change how you feel—but to ensure you don’t feel it alone, if you don’t want to.

In your own time, things may shift.

And I will be here for that… and everything in between- if you want me to!

A gentle reflection

Poet Courtney Peppernell once wrote:“I keep wondering how sad do I have to be for someone to stop insisting everything is going to be fine?" AND "Even sadness needs someone in its corner.”

Perhaps this is the offering:

Two things can exist at once.

You can feel the deep ache of betrayal, grief, or loss…and still notice the beauty in the bloom of your favourite tree.

Both are real.

Both are welcome.

But when we are only invited to speak about the beauty—we are, in some ways, robbed of the fullness of being human.

And perhaps more importantly, we are robbed of the kind of connection that becomes a safe harbour—one we can return to when the seas become rough again.

Because they will.

That is part of this life.