Such a wonderful piece. Again. What you described happens a lot in Cancer Land, too. People hesitate to have conversations or share what they're going through because they perceive it to be not as bad as cancer. I've experienced this even with my siblings. Cancer Havers want to be included in conversations. They want friends and family to share about their troubles. Like you wrote so beautifully, we don't need to build walls and hierarchies of suffering. Everyone's hard matters. Witnessing the pain, worries, or trials of someone else without comparison is such a simple yet profound way to offer support. No judgment. Accompaniment. I like that. And I love this essay.
I take it you are a cancer “haver” (?) I admit I haven’t heard this term before, and I appreciate your education! Everything you wrote makes so much sense, Nancy. I used to be a grief spirituality writer for almost ten years, so I traveled to speak with the bereaved all over the country. Hearing people’s stories helped me understand that we are, by and large as a society, lacking in our social intelligence when it comes to knowing how to talk about death.
You might like to follow @Jane Duncan Rogers if you don’t already. She has a guest post I’m featuring this summer, and she writes very much about what you mentioned here. I think the title of her post is something about “why don’t we have conversations about death.” It’s fitting for what you shared today. And thank you for opening up about this. I appreciate all that you share.
I get technical. Thank you for sharing about Sarah’s surgery. I know it was painful. Her treatment seems to have worked well. I try to avoid getting close to people if I or a family member are sick. I have anxiety and depression. I talk about it to try and get people to get professional therapy if they need it. I found a friend who is also a therapist. I told her that friend time and therapist time are things I can keep separate. You seem to be a good friend and therapist at the same time.
That’s such a kind comment, Robyn! I used to be a school counselor, so I have a counseling background. I suppose those skills come out sometimes, which I’m glad happens when it does. But I can honestly tell you that I have not always been a good friend. In this moment, with Monica, I tried to be, because I knew she was incredibly distraught, and she came to me for help. So I wanted to compose myself enough to be able to allow her the space she needed, even though my own heart was shattering, too, because of Sarah’s upcoming surgery.
There are a handful of times I’ve really blown it with friends, just haven’t been there for them or even told them off because I was in a really, really dark place emotionally and mentally. So there’s full transparency for you! I am human, but it is nice to hear the good things about me sometimes, so thank you.
I am a retired Med Tech, hospital lab worker. I was pretty horrified that someone exposed to a sick child was visiting you. I looked up Apert’s online. It is a scary condition. Sarah seems to have good brain function. Gene mutations happen all the time. It is nice to know that modern medicine can help. Scientists have much to learn. I hope they get the funding research that they need. Even “mental illnesses” have a genetic “cause”. Tell Sarah, that she is very loved and not to dwell on negative thoughts. People often are the hardest on themselves. Wait, I need to take my own advice. I have been lucky to have horses. I like to push them on others. Sarah might like to try therapeutic riding. Caution: Horses are habit forming.
Thanks for sharing this, Robyn! To be clear, Monica was not sick when she visited me, and I wasn’t offended at all that she did. Sarah was, I think, at preschool during the time of Monica’s visit, and to be honest, I have never been someone who is obsessed with keeping my kids away from germs. We do the hygenic things of washing hands, covering coughs with elbows, and staying home with fevers. I appreciate that you took time to investigate Apert and what it entails. You’re right that mental illnesses do have biological components, and I think researchers are finding out a lot more about psychological diagnoses these days!
Sarah probably would love equine therapy, but her Medicaid waiver doesn’t cover it, because she’s maxed out with using it for case management (UGH), music therapy, and counseling.
That’s such a heartfelt reflection, and it speaks volumes about your emotional intelligence and empathy. Recognizing that balance—being present for others without centering ourselves—is so powerful, especially in a world where everyone carries unseen struggles. Your words show deep awareness and restraint, and that’s a rare strength.
You’re not alone in feeling the urge to share your own pain—it’s human, especially when our own wounds are tender. But the fact that you choose not to say it, that you hold space for someone else’s story, is exactly what builds real, compassionate friendships.
Well, I appreciate that, Michael. To be honest, I struggled mightily in the moment Monica came to my house and fell apart because of her daughter’s fever. On the inside, I was stewing. Roiling. I had to take a minute after she left to compose myself and consider my reaction, then realize that most people aren’t going to face what our family faces with Sarah’s care. And I wouldn’t want them to! So it’s normal for a first-time mom like Monica to be worried about her kid when this is the first time she’s spiked a serious fever. I tried to put that into perspective. Emotional intelligence, for me, evolves over time and is based on how much work I invest in my personal growth and healing.
Exactly. you did the right thing. Maybe another time you have some coffee, and you have the opportunity to explain about Sarah’s care. But at the moment, you did the good thing for your neighbor.
That’s a good point, Michael. There’s a time and a place for what we share. I’ve been thinking a little bit about how there are moments when restraint can be an act of kindness, and maybe this situation with my friend Monica illustrates that. Meaning, being judicious about the timing of what we say, and how, and when.
I remember my mother telling me that she was under so much stress taking care of my profoundly disabled brother, that she went temporarily blind while in a store once.
My older sister told me my mom and dad had “knock down, drag out fights” over whether to put Danny in a long term care facility. Nothing physical, but they argued. I was too young to know anything.
My mom didn’t want to, but eventually she did. He got too big for her to handle. It broke her heart. I took care of my mom when she got Alzheimer’s. It was hard of course, but she deserved all the love and care I could give her.
Wow, that is heartbreaking to hear, Julia. It’s a very vulnerable excerpt from your life you wrote about here, and I thank you for that. I want you to know I am holding it my heart as I type my response to you today.
There are so many layers to raising a child with a diagnosis, to loving someone with a disability. I can attest to the hardship and wear-and-tear upon my marriage, too. In fact, Sarah’s first geneticist, Dr. Bader, once told Ben and me at Sarah’s first appointment that about 85% of couples in our situation end up divorced. Ouch.
For us, it has been the difference in how we approach grief. I needed to talk about it with Ben and share it with him, but he clammed up and needed more space to process how he was feeling about it. That’s tough.
And when you’re talking about long-term care, that’s another beast of a discussion that we haven’t broached yet but will soon, as Sarah approaches age 18. I think any time a parent realizes they need to put their child under the care of a health care professional, whether in a group home or other facility, it is absolutely heart-wrenching. Another grief burst.
Becoming temporarily blind could have also been a form of dissociation for your mom, because the trauma was too great for her and her body was protesting everything she was seeing, whether literally or figuratively. This could have been a type of conversion disorder, which happens a lot for people who are carrying an immense amount of trauma.
I rarely discuss this, so thank you for making me feel comfortable. Fortunately my mom and dad had a strong marriage. My dad told her she frowned even in her sleep during those difficult years. He said he felt Danny be in a nursing facility, but told her she should do what she thought was right. They made it through that extremely difficult family tragedy. Ours was a happy family and we all survived and thrived. But those statistics don’t surprise me.
I hear you, Julia, and I imagine this is difficult to share. That’s why I want you to know that I’m holding it carefully in my heart. It seems to me that most of us who make it through extremely trying times do so with an immense amount of grace—either bestowed on us by others who lift us up, or when we learn how to give ourselves the breathing room to be human. And to learn to let go. To forgive. To lean into the mystery. To love. Sounds like your parents learned how to do that with each other and by raising Danny and you. :)
You said, "True accompaniment is when I find myself plodding along a path, then I meet another wounded person and take their hand in mine."
That image is so powerful (and beautiful, it brought some tears up for me)! It perfectly captures the essence of what you're talking about. It’s not about offering solutions or fixing things, but about walking alongside someone and bearing witness to their journey. So often, we try to rush ahead and pull people along, thinking we’re being helpful. But true accompaniment is about meeting someone where they are, respecting their pace, and offering silent, steadfast support. It's a gentle, humble act of solidarity that requires more stillness than action, which is something our fast paced world is not very good at.
Thanks for plodding along the path with me, Alex. You are a stellar example, especially in our small group when we have more time to share, of what it means to give someone the space they need to say whatever it is they need to say.
That means a lot @Alexander Lovell, PhD . Would you mind writing a short testimonial that I could share with my subscribers about why you appreciate being part of my little slice of this digital space?
“Jeannie writes from the heart. She walks alongside you as you read, feel, process, and grow from her words. She has helped me be better, and I hope she helps you grow too. 🩵”
I can't say anything that everyone else hasn't said before, but I second all of it. This runs so deep, and while it's common for many of us, watching you practice it in real time this way is so helpful. Educational even. We can do this. We can focus on someone else, we can embrace them, we can validate. So often, we can't fix anything, but we can deal with them. Thank you Jeannie for giving us all this moment to contemplate what it is to be compassionate and present.
Wow, Laury, I didn’t realize that what I am doing in this digital space is educational or practicing it in real time. It’s helpful to know that. So often I get mired in my own doubts about my abilities or even my personality, my sensitivity, etc. and I can’t see what others see. Of course, I don’t think any of us truly can. So it is a powerful testament to read that maybe my deepest desire—to share stories from our family’s life that illustrate everyday encounters of kindness with ordinary people—actually does make that impact to tell others that they can go and do likewise.
This part..."You have your hard. I have mine. One is not better or worse than the other. They are both different. That’s all. What’s hard is hard for me, and your hard is hard for you. There’s no comparison." So important.
Everyone's hard is different, and relative, and personal.
the point is, we are all human and we all have hard.
I also like to remember that we aren't keeping score on holding space for each other. I have a friend from college who showed up for me in a big way in the year after my divorce. She asked me how she could help and i said "just text me every day to check in"...it was a lot to ask because it wasn't our norm...we hadn't been in more than every few months contact since college. She did it. She showed up. And she has never needed me to show up for her in that way. But I have showed up for others in that way. It's not a tit for tat. It's a pay-it-forward and everything comes back around in shapes and forms we don't expect or always understand.
Yes, Teri Leigh, exactly! I think that’s kind of an underlying principle in the art of generosity and receptivity, don’t you think? To be in relationship with those who have no expectations of keeping score on who did what and who owes what. Freedom in relationships means that sometimes the scales are tipped one way, but it doesn’t mean it has to come back to a perfect balance in order to be “fair” or “equal.”
I think we make relationships transactional when we live under this mindset, and it can undermine and damage the freedom that comes from giving without expectation of reciprocity. And likewise in receiving.
That’s such an excellent point. I’m so glad you made it!
This is truly beautiful Jeannie. It is a lesson I've been really tuning in to for the last fifteen years after losing my husband. It was such an easy thought to want to "one up" anyone who complained about their spouse's bad habits. I learned to accept that they weren't being mean, just honest. I have my moments of still wanting to react, but as you mentioned, would it be "kind or helpful"? Thank you for this gracious perspective. 💗
I think when we are grieving it is especially hard to hear someone else tell us about what they’re going through, because everything is so exposed and raw for us. I don’t know if you are aware, Nancy, but I used to be a grief spirituality writer for almost ten years, so I traveled around the country and heard many stories from the bereaved. You are not alone in feeling the way you described here. Sometimes we need to be in the presence of a person where we can admit these thoughts and feelings, these knee-jerk reactions, right? And feel free to vent, knowing no matter what we say and how awful it may sound, it will not be judged. I appreciate how you opened up about this here. Thank you.
This was really powerful Jeannie, and you're right that this conversation happens a lot and can indeed be isolating. Life is both hard and beautiful, for all of us without exception. And the title you gave this piece "The weight you carry is my weight, too" is the wisdom we all need. We are one. You are a truly beautiful soul.
Oh, thank you, Stephanie! That line sort of came to me. It seemed fitting, universal in a sense. There’s a lot that can be gleaned from that sentence, I think. Or at least I hope. You make an excellent point that life can be both hard and beautiful, and that’s really my goal in the essays I write, because it’s something I’m still learning every day.
My best friend and I call this "the two rivers." Life is pain and beauty, always. Thank goodness for the latter to help us cope with the former. You do a beautiful job of inhabiting this in your writing.
The organization you are describing is a 12 step recovery program in which all comers struggle with the same issues, alcoholism or some other addiction. As a member of one such group, I can’t help but compare my circumstances with someone else but the real value of belonging is sharing the love and acceptance from other like minded souls. Jeannie, I know Sarah’s condition is rare and has nothing to do with any addiction but the support group you described exists because you were brave enough to share your story. Your writing gives me hope because I see someone dealing with hardship with grace and kindness
Hi Ed, thanks so much for sharing all of this. I hear you about 12-step programs. I was part of AlAnon for a few years, and it opened up so much in me. It humbled me, I guess. I realized it wasn’t my brother who was the problem; it was me. It was how I responded to him, how I expected him to behave. When I relinquished those expectations, everything changed. Same for when Sarah was born.
I truly think the summary of my life is “Lessons in Letting Go.” Maybe that’s a theme for an essay at another time. :)
This touched my heart. You are so wise. My youngest son has neuro-psychological/ mental health problems (or something, no one really knows, even though so many experts have been consulted) that prevent him from going to school and working and having friends and leading a "normal" life. When I listen to my friends' worries about their kids´ school grades or teenage tantrums, I often think: Is this what you are worried about? At least your kid is going to school, unlike mine. But then I remember what Brene Brown has said about empathy: It is sitting quietly with the one who suffers and just being there, in that rut of suffering, and showing that you care because you have your own sufferings as well...Thank you for this empathic post and hugs to Sarah and her entire family!
That’s a hard thing to do, isn’t it, Kati? I admit I was angry with Monica when she was complaining about Amber’s fever as I prepared for Sarah’s skull surgery. I felt very angry, but I kept it to myself and decided to revisit it later, in private. It ended up a good decision, because then I was better able to be with Monica in the moment, and later she told me I was such a good friend to her. We really don’t know what other people are going through. Hard is hard, no matter what it is, and each of us has our versions of hard.
This is such a poignant essay, and it's true that we all have our hard lot in life. I love that you didn't minimize your friend's pain and are a great, empathetic listener. Everyone has suffering, and life is simply not a competition of suffering. Everyone's hard matters.
I agree, Beth. It seems like most people want to compare and compete with “who has it worse,” which has always bothered me since Sarah was born. I just wanted to tell them (but didn’t) that it’s okay if they are worried or upset or angry, because I get it. I am, too. And just because at the time I was dealing with a massive trial (Sarah’s surgery) didn’t mean I saw their struggles as nonexistent or inconsequential.
I don’t know about you, but when Pat was in the hospital, when my mother was dying, I was so grateful for the friend that showed up on my doorstep to share a problem that was NOT mine. In my helplessness over my own situation, I felt useful by being able to listen to them, to offer space, and when it felt right, a hug. Sometimes our humanness is all we have to offer but that is a tremendous gift. Thank you for reminding me of that, Jeannie.
I hear you, Jess. In a way, it means that the other person doesn’t consider your burdens to be so troublesome that you aren’t seen as a person walking alongside them. I think there’s a delicate balancing act here, though, and it probably depends on where the grieving person is, regarding headspace. I always felt relieved that my friends still needed me to be there for them, but there have been a few times when I truly did feel overwhelmed by their massive problems that I often did not know how to set appropriate boundaries to shield myself from carrying for them. Again, a balancing act!
Totally get that. I think the line for me is do they need me to be there in the moment? Or do they need me to be their person? I did not have the capacity to be anybody’s person while I was going through that, but I was honored to be there in the moment. Definitely a balancing act and knowing what you can and cannot carry at any given moment.
Ohhh, such an excellent distinction, Jess—to be with the person in the moment or to BE their person is such a huge difference. I am going to think about that more. Thank you.
You wrote this exquisitely. We would live with a lot less unspoken sadness if we lived more openly, the way you describe, unafraid of our struggles being "less than" or "more than" someone else's. If all of us listened and responded with an open heart, despite what each of us may be going through, imagine what the world would look and feel like. As a volunteer crisis counselor, I've heard some stories that seem insurmountable, that crush me, and others that may not be a significant ordeal for many people. But what I think or feel doesn't matter, and no one knows anything about the volunteers. We are there to meet people where they are. Whatever a person is reaching out for is difficult and challenging for them, at that moment, and that's what we are there for. It's about being human.
Joy, I am amazed at the gifts you bring to the world. It really is rare to meet someone like you who is able to sit with another person in crisis and simply be there by their side—to meet them where they are, as you said. That is rare. I discovered this when I used to do grief work as a writer and speaker and traveled around the country, meeting people who were suffering terrible losses.
It is so good that you are taking time to be tender to your own heart, too. I am so grateful for your presence here. Thank you for sharing this and for walking alongside me, too. :)
How beautiful Jeannie especially this: ‘I wonder sometimes what might happen if each of us could set aside our assumptions and filtered worldviews and simply sit in the presence of another hurting human. Listen. Enter into their world, their experience. Try to understand what it’s like to be them. Recognize and acknowledge the discomfort as it arises, but then tuck it away for later exploration.’ I love this theme of belonging and inclusion especially under a political administration that wants to stamp it out. So important to rise up against that in our universal humanity.
It really is one of my utmost values, Amy, to bring people together. I hate division and I think everyone can learn from each other if only we go back to learning how to listen first. I mean this for any person of any group with any belief or background or political affiliation. Each of us can learn how to listen and accompany another person and walk a mile in their shoes, as the saying goes. I’m glad you find this space to be an inclusive one.
Thank you for another perceptive and thoughtful post about a difficult situation many of us have struggled with. Sending love to your beautiful family. 💜
Hi Jeannie,
Such a wonderful piece. Again. What you described happens a lot in Cancer Land, too. People hesitate to have conversations or share what they're going through because they perceive it to be not as bad as cancer. I've experienced this even with my siblings. Cancer Havers want to be included in conversations. They want friends and family to share about their troubles. Like you wrote so beautifully, we don't need to build walls and hierarchies of suffering. Everyone's hard matters. Witnessing the pain, worries, or trials of someone else without comparison is such a simple yet profound way to offer support. No judgment. Accompaniment. I like that. And I love this essay.
Hi Nancy,
I take it you are a cancer “haver” (?) I admit I haven’t heard this term before, and I appreciate your education! Everything you wrote makes so much sense, Nancy. I used to be a grief spirituality writer for almost ten years, so I traveled to speak with the bereaved all over the country. Hearing people’s stories helped me understand that we are, by and large as a society, lacking in our social intelligence when it comes to knowing how to talk about death.
You might like to follow @Jane Duncan Rogers if you don’t already. She has a guest post I’m featuring this summer, and she writes very much about what you mentioned here. I think the title of her post is something about “why don’t we have conversations about death.” It’s fitting for what you shared today. And thank you for opening up about this. I appreciate all that you share.
Thank you so much @Jeannie Ewing for the shout out. Nancy - I’ll reach out to you
You’re most welcome, Jane! :)
I get technical. Thank you for sharing about Sarah’s surgery. I know it was painful. Her treatment seems to have worked well. I try to avoid getting close to people if I or a family member are sick. I have anxiety and depression. I talk about it to try and get people to get professional therapy if they need it. I found a friend who is also a therapist. I told her that friend time and therapist time are things I can keep separate. You seem to be a good friend and therapist at the same time.
That’s such a kind comment, Robyn! I used to be a school counselor, so I have a counseling background. I suppose those skills come out sometimes, which I’m glad happens when it does. But I can honestly tell you that I have not always been a good friend. In this moment, with Monica, I tried to be, because I knew she was incredibly distraught, and she came to me for help. So I wanted to compose myself enough to be able to allow her the space she needed, even though my own heart was shattering, too, because of Sarah’s upcoming surgery.
There are a handful of times I’ve really blown it with friends, just haven’t been there for them or even told them off because I was in a really, really dark place emotionally and mentally. So there’s full transparency for you! I am human, but it is nice to hear the good things about me sometimes, so thank you.
I am a retired Med Tech, hospital lab worker. I was pretty horrified that someone exposed to a sick child was visiting you. I looked up Apert’s online. It is a scary condition. Sarah seems to have good brain function. Gene mutations happen all the time. It is nice to know that modern medicine can help. Scientists have much to learn. I hope they get the funding research that they need. Even “mental illnesses” have a genetic “cause”. Tell Sarah, that she is very loved and not to dwell on negative thoughts. People often are the hardest on themselves. Wait, I need to take my own advice. I have been lucky to have horses. I like to push them on others. Sarah might like to try therapeutic riding. Caution: Horses are habit forming.
Thanks for sharing this, Robyn! To be clear, Monica was not sick when she visited me, and I wasn’t offended at all that she did. Sarah was, I think, at preschool during the time of Monica’s visit, and to be honest, I have never been someone who is obsessed with keeping my kids away from germs. We do the hygenic things of washing hands, covering coughs with elbows, and staying home with fevers. I appreciate that you took time to investigate Apert and what it entails. You’re right that mental illnesses do have biological components, and I think researchers are finding out a lot more about psychological diagnoses these days!
Sarah probably would love equine therapy, but her Medicaid waiver doesn’t cover it, because she’s maxed out with using it for case management (UGH), music therapy, and counseling.
That’s such a heartfelt reflection, and it speaks volumes about your emotional intelligence and empathy. Recognizing that balance—being present for others without centering ourselves—is so powerful, especially in a world where everyone carries unseen struggles. Your words show deep awareness and restraint, and that’s a rare strength.
You’re not alone in feeling the urge to share your own pain—it’s human, especially when our own wounds are tender. But the fact that you choose not to say it, that you hold space for someone else’s story, is exactly what builds real, compassionate friendships.
Well, I appreciate that, Michael. To be honest, I struggled mightily in the moment Monica came to my house and fell apart because of her daughter’s fever. On the inside, I was stewing. Roiling. I had to take a minute after she left to compose myself and consider my reaction, then realize that most people aren’t going to face what our family faces with Sarah’s care. And I wouldn’t want them to! So it’s normal for a first-time mom like Monica to be worried about her kid when this is the first time she’s spiked a serious fever. I tried to put that into perspective. Emotional intelligence, for me, evolves over time and is based on how much work I invest in my personal growth and healing.
Exactly. you did the right thing. Maybe another time you have some coffee, and you have the opportunity to explain about Sarah’s care. But at the moment, you did the good thing for your neighbor.
That’s a good point, Michael. There’s a time and a place for what we share. I’ve been thinking a little bit about how there are moments when restraint can be an act of kindness, and maybe this situation with my friend Monica illustrates that. Meaning, being judicious about the timing of what we say, and how, and when.
I remember my mother telling me that she was under so much stress taking care of my profoundly disabled brother, that she went temporarily blind while in a store once.
My older sister told me my mom and dad had “knock down, drag out fights” over whether to put Danny in a long term care facility. Nothing physical, but they argued. I was too young to know anything.
My mom didn’t want to, but eventually she did. He got too big for her to handle. It broke her heart. I took care of my mom when she got Alzheimer’s. It was hard of course, but she deserved all the love and care I could give her.
Wow, that is heartbreaking to hear, Julia. It’s a very vulnerable excerpt from your life you wrote about here, and I thank you for that. I want you to know I am holding it my heart as I type my response to you today.
There are so many layers to raising a child with a diagnosis, to loving someone with a disability. I can attest to the hardship and wear-and-tear upon my marriage, too. In fact, Sarah’s first geneticist, Dr. Bader, once told Ben and me at Sarah’s first appointment that about 85% of couples in our situation end up divorced. Ouch.
For us, it has been the difference in how we approach grief. I needed to talk about it with Ben and share it with him, but he clammed up and needed more space to process how he was feeling about it. That’s tough.
And when you’re talking about long-term care, that’s another beast of a discussion that we haven’t broached yet but will soon, as Sarah approaches age 18. I think any time a parent realizes they need to put their child under the care of a health care professional, whether in a group home or other facility, it is absolutely heart-wrenching. Another grief burst.
Becoming temporarily blind could have also been a form of dissociation for your mom, because the trauma was too great for her and her body was protesting everything she was seeing, whether literally or figuratively. This could have been a type of conversion disorder, which happens a lot for people who are carrying an immense amount of trauma.
I rarely discuss this, so thank you for making me feel comfortable. Fortunately my mom and dad had a strong marriage. My dad told her she frowned even in her sleep during those difficult years. He said he felt Danny be in a nursing facility, but told her she should do what she thought was right. They made it through that extremely difficult family tragedy. Ours was a happy family and we all survived and thrived. But those statistics don’t surprise me.
I hear you, Julia, and I imagine this is difficult to share. That’s why I want you to know that I’m holding it carefully in my heart. It seems to me that most of us who make it through extremely trying times do so with an immense amount of grace—either bestowed on us by others who lift us up, or when we learn how to give ourselves the breathing room to be human. And to learn to let go. To forgive. To lean into the mystery. To love. Sounds like your parents learned how to do that with each other and by raising Danny and you. :)
wow
You said, "True accompaniment is when I find myself plodding along a path, then I meet another wounded person and take their hand in mine."
That image is so powerful (and beautiful, it brought some tears up for me)! It perfectly captures the essence of what you're talking about. It’s not about offering solutions or fixing things, but about walking alongside someone and bearing witness to their journey. So often, we try to rush ahead and pull people along, thinking we’re being helpful. But true accompaniment is about meeting someone where they are, respecting their pace, and offering silent, steadfast support. It's a gentle, humble act of solidarity that requires more stillness than action, which is something our fast paced world is not very good at.
Thanks for plodding along the path with me, Alex. You are a stellar example, especially in our small group when we have more time to share, of what it means to give someone the space they need to say whatever it is they need to say.
Thank you, my friend. I love having you in our small group. I love the wisdoms you share, the experiences you relate. 🩵
Walking beside you is an honor, to support you and be supported by you is always a treat 🩵 That is what community is for.
That means a lot @Alexander Lovell, PhD . Would you mind writing a short testimonial that I could share with my subscribers about why you appreciate being part of my little slice of this digital space?
Of course, i’d be happy to do so :) I think you should also have a recommendation blurb too from when I originally recommended your publication!
Oh, I need to find where that is, Alex. I forget how to access the comments for recommendations. Thanks for the reminder!
I just updated it for you! Here it is:
“Jeannie writes from the heart. She walks alongside you as you read, feel, process, and grow from her words. She has helped me be better, and I hope she helps you grow too. 🩵”
I can't say anything that everyone else hasn't said before, but I second all of it. This runs so deep, and while it's common for many of us, watching you practice it in real time this way is so helpful. Educational even. We can do this. We can focus on someone else, we can embrace them, we can validate. So often, we can't fix anything, but we can deal with them. Thank you Jeannie for giving us all this moment to contemplate what it is to be compassionate and present.
Wow, Laury, I didn’t realize that what I am doing in this digital space is educational or practicing it in real time. It’s helpful to know that. So often I get mired in my own doubts about my abilities or even my personality, my sensitivity, etc. and I can’t see what others see. Of course, I don’t think any of us truly can. So it is a powerful testament to read that maybe my deepest desire—to share stories from our family’s life that illustrate everyday encounters of kindness with ordinary people—actually does make that impact to tell others that they can go and do likewise.
That description of the goals you have in focus…it’s exactly my experience of you and your posts.
What a high compliment, Laury. Thank you for letting me know.
This part..."You have your hard. I have mine. One is not better or worse than the other. They are both different. That’s all. What’s hard is hard for me, and your hard is hard for you. There’s no comparison." So important.
Everyone's hard is different, and relative, and personal.
the point is, we are all human and we all have hard.
I also like to remember that we aren't keeping score on holding space for each other. I have a friend from college who showed up for me in a big way in the year after my divorce. She asked me how she could help and i said "just text me every day to check in"...it was a lot to ask because it wasn't our norm...we hadn't been in more than every few months contact since college. She did it. She showed up. And she has never needed me to show up for her in that way. But I have showed up for others in that way. It's not a tit for tat. It's a pay-it-forward and everything comes back around in shapes and forms we don't expect or always understand.
Yes, Teri Leigh, exactly! I think that’s kind of an underlying principle in the art of generosity and receptivity, don’t you think? To be in relationship with those who have no expectations of keeping score on who did what and who owes what. Freedom in relationships means that sometimes the scales are tipped one way, but it doesn’t mean it has to come back to a perfect balance in order to be “fair” or “equal.”
I think we make relationships transactional when we live under this mindset, and it can undermine and damage the freedom that comes from giving without expectation of reciprocity. And likewise in receiving.
That’s such an excellent point. I’m so glad you made it!
I just love your writing Jeannie. Your stories are so alive.
I’m glad you feel that way, Teri Leigh. My writing has evolved as I have evolved, and I think that’s true of all of us. ;)
This is truly beautiful Jeannie. It is a lesson I've been really tuning in to for the last fifteen years after losing my husband. It was such an easy thought to want to "one up" anyone who complained about their spouse's bad habits. I learned to accept that they weren't being mean, just honest. I have my moments of still wanting to react, but as you mentioned, would it be "kind or helpful"? Thank you for this gracious perspective. 💗
I think when we are grieving it is especially hard to hear someone else tell us about what they’re going through, because everything is so exposed and raw for us. I don’t know if you are aware, Nancy, but I used to be a grief spirituality writer for almost ten years, so I traveled around the country and heard many stories from the bereaved. You are not alone in feeling the way you described here. Sometimes we need to be in the presence of a person where we can admit these thoughts and feelings, these knee-jerk reactions, right? And feel free to vent, knowing no matter what we say and how awful it may sound, it will not be judged. I appreciate how you opened up about this here. Thank you.
I was not aware of your history in grief writing. I'm honored to know you more and more as you share your experiences here with all of us. 💗
I feel honored to know you more, too, Nancy. So glad to be here with you.
This was really powerful Jeannie, and you're right that this conversation happens a lot and can indeed be isolating. Life is both hard and beautiful, for all of us without exception. And the title you gave this piece "The weight you carry is my weight, too" is the wisdom we all need. We are one. You are a truly beautiful soul.
Oh, thank you, Stephanie! That line sort of came to me. It seemed fitting, universal in a sense. There’s a lot that can be gleaned from that sentence, I think. Or at least I hope. You make an excellent point that life can be both hard and beautiful, and that’s really my goal in the essays I write, because it’s something I’m still learning every day.
My best friend and I call this "the two rivers." Life is pain and beauty, always. Thank goodness for the latter to help us cope with the former. You do a beautiful job of inhabiting this in your writing.
How beautiful—”the two rivers.” Sounds like the beginning of a poem, Stephanie.
The organization you are describing is a 12 step recovery program in which all comers struggle with the same issues, alcoholism or some other addiction. As a member of one such group, I can’t help but compare my circumstances with someone else but the real value of belonging is sharing the love and acceptance from other like minded souls. Jeannie, I know Sarah’s condition is rare and has nothing to do with any addiction but the support group you described exists because you were brave enough to share your story. Your writing gives me hope because I see someone dealing with hardship with grace and kindness
Right you are
Hi Ed, thanks so much for sharing all of this. I hear you about 12-step programs. I was part of AlAnon for a few years, and it opened up so much in me. It humbled me, I guess. I realized it wasn’t my brother who was the problem; it was me. It was how I responded to him, how I expected him to behave. When I relinquished those expectations, everything changed. Same for when Sarah was born.
I truly think the summary of my life is “Lessons in Letting Go.” Maybe that’s a theme for an essay at another time. :)
This touched my heart. You are so wise. My youngest son has neuro-psychological/ mental health problems (or something, no one really knows, even though so many experts have been consulted) that prevent him from going to school and working and having friends and leading a "normal" life. When I listen to my friends' worries about their kids´ school grades or teenage tantrums, I often think: Is this what you are worried about? At least your kid is going to school, unlike mine. But then I remember what Brene Brown has said about empathy: It is sitting quietly with the one who suffers and just being there, in that rut of suffering, and showing that you care because you have your own sufferings as well...Thank you for this empathic post and hugs to Sarah and her entire family!
That’s a hard thing to do, isn’t it, Kati? I admit I was angry with Monica when she was complaining about Amber’s fever as I prepared for Sarah’s skull surgery. I felt very angry, but I kept it to myself and decided to revisit it later, in private. It ended up a good decision, because then I was better able to be with Monica in the moment, and later she told me I was such a good friend to her. We really don’t know what other people are going through. Hard is hard, no matter what it is, and each of us has our versions of hard.
Hi Jeannie,
This is such a poignant essay, and it's true that we all have our hard lot in life. I love that you didn't minimize your friend's pain and are a great, empathetic listener. Everyone has suffering, and life is simply not a competition of suffering. Everyone's hard matters.
I agree, Beth. It seems like most people want to compare and compete with “who has it worse,” which has always bothered me since Sarah was born. I just wanted to tell them (but didn’t) that it’s okay if they are worried or upset or angry, because I get it. I am, too. And just because at the time I was dealing with a massive trial (Sarah’s surgery) didn’t mean I saw their struggles as nonexistent or inconsequential.
I love you Jeannie, and your big heart! (Going to leave you a podcast...)
Thanks, @Imola ! Looking forward to it. I was just thinking about asking when you are leaving for your poetry retreat. It’s soon, yes?
Monday!! :))
I don’t know about you, but when Pat was in the hospital, when my mother was dying, I was so grateful for the friend that showed up on my doorstep to share a problem that was NOT mine. In my helplessness over my own situation, I felt useful by being able to listen to them, to offer space, and when it felt right, a hug. Sometimes our humanness is all we have to offer but that is a tremendous gift. Thank you for reminding me of that, Jeannie.
I hear you, Jess. In a way, it means that the other person doesn’t consider your burdens to be so troublesome that you aren’t seen as a person walking alongside them. I think there’s a delicate balancing act here, though, and it probably depends on where the grieving person is, regarding headspace. I always felt relieved that my friends still needed me to be there for them, but there have been a few times when I truly did feel overwhelmed by their massive problems that I often did not know how to set appropriate boundaries to shield myself from carrying for them. Again, a balancing act!
Totally get that. I think the line for me is do they need me to be there in the moment? Or do they need me to be their person? I did not have the capacity to be anybody’s person while I was going through that, but I was honored to be there in the moment. Definitely a balancing act and knowing what you can and cannot carry at any given moment.
Ohhh, such an excellent distinction, Jess—to be with the person in the moment or to BE their person is such a huge difference. I am going to think about that more. Thank you.
You wrote this exquisitely. We would live with a lot less unspoken sadness if we lived more openly, the way you describe, unafraid of our struggles being "less than" or "more than" someone else's. If all of us listened and responded with an open heart, despite what each of us may be going through, imagine what the world would look and feel like. As a volunteer crisis counselor, I've heard some stories that seem insurmountable, that crush me, and others that may not be a significant ordeal for many people. But what I think or feel doesn't matter, and no one knows anything about the volunteers. We are there to meet people where they are. Whatever a person is reaching out for is difficult and challenging for them, at that moment, and that's what we are there for. It's about being human.
Joy, I am amazed at the gifts you bring to the world. It really is rare to meet someone like you who is able to sit with another person in crisis and simply be there by their side—to meet them where they are, as you said. That is rare. I discovered this when I used to do grief work as a writer and speaker and traveled around the country, meeting people who were suffering terrible losses.
It is so good that you are taking time to be tender to your own heart, too. I am so grateful for your presence here. Thank you for sharing this and for walking alongside me, too. :)
How beautiful Jeannie especially this: ‘I wonder sometimes what might happen if each of us could set aside our assumptions and filtered worldviews and simply sit in the presence of another hurting human. Listen. Enter into their world, their experience. Try to understand what it’s like to be them. Recognize and acknowledge the discomfort as it arises, but then tuck it away for later exploration.’ I love this theme of belonging and inclusion especially under a political administration that wants to stamp it out. So important to rise up against that in our universal humanity.
It really is one of my utmost values, Amy, to bring people together. I hate division and I think everyone can learn from each other if only we go back to learning how to listen first. I mean this for any person of any group with any belief or background or political affiliation. Each of us can learn how to listen and accompany another person and walk a mile in their shoes, as the saying goes. I’m glad you find this space to be an inclusive one.
Thank you for another perceptive and thoughtful post about a difficult situation many of us have struggled with. Sending love to your beautiful family. 💜
I’m grateful you stopped by to say this, Margaret. Thank you.