The Frontlines of “What is” – Part One

The other day, I had a difficult conversation with someone in a deeply vulnerable position. It was heavy.

In my work, it’s a daily experience to quietly be present with people in their grief and loss. Sometimes I even have streaks of wisdom and comforting words to share. It can be intense, but I have also learned how to be in that space with people. This one caught me off guard, though. The conversation lasted 5 minutes, but it felt like 50. I was at a loss. I felt a little frozen, even. I was uncertain with myself, but feeling uncertain is not the same as  incapable. Aren’t we always more capable than we realize?

In the moments that followed, as I both literally and figuratively walked away from the experience, I thought, “I am not equipped for this! What can I do to prepare for next time?” That initial response is likely related to my desire for control. “Control” meaning: I can ready myself for pain and therefore make it hurt less for me and/or for someone else. As you can see, I haven’t quite arrived at “fearless”, despite being described this way in the past. Courageous? Often. Fearless? Never. We all experience fear. While there are many life pains I can learn to sit with, and while I’m always learning to find stillness in discomfort, this experience was different. I didn’t like it. I was blindsided and I had no plan.

With further reflection, I realized I deserved some credit. I did well in a tough situation. I knew I couldn’t fix it for them, and I didn’t try (a growth marker for a recovering people-pleaser!) But, interestingly, my knee-jerk reaction was still to find a small way to fix it for me. The fixer in me is always ready, and I wondered “how and what can I do, so that next time I feel certainty?” This translates to, “I don’t like how I feel. How can I feel this less?” I guess I momentarily forgot what empathy means. It’s a gift. But it’s also weighty, and isn’t going to be on my terms and timeline. To be perfectly honest (and human), sometimes I reach a limit and I have to feign empathy. I can’t take on more than I can handle as one person. I have to know and respect my limits. Maybe that was a factor in this situation, too. Being mindful of my limits means I can be more consistently sincere, without losing myself to the tornado of fixing. Connection and empathy are an important part of living (the most important?), and living is not without pain and discomfort.

I wasn’t expecting to share in grief at that moment when it all of the sudden was there, sitting between us. It was an intensely emotional moment that I had no control over, and maybe that’s the point.

Sometimes it’s not about doing anything. Sometimes it’s just an opportunity to witness and empathize. Sometimes it is just about presence.