If we’re no longer a child, we probably already know that our feelings are going to change over time. We’ve had enough life experience to trust this truth. So, when we are reminded that what feels terrible now will eventually feel less terrible, and maybe even normal, we don’t actually feel any better. We don’t feel comforted or supported, not really. But it’s not just because we already know that our feelings will eventually change that this kind of “you won’t always feel this way” reassurance is unhelpful and sometimes actually feels even more painful.

When we’re in the midst of great sadness or grief, what we really want is someone to be with us in our pain, to essentially, keep us company in our grief.

When we’re suffering, counter-intuitively, we don’t actually want advice or someone to remind us that we will feel better in some future now. What we long for is another human being who’s willing to be with us in this now…to let our suffering be what it is. Someone who has the courage to let us suffer and not try/need to change our grief into something better or more tolerable.

We share our pain so that we’re not so alone in it, so that we can have company in our present moment with the pain that’s here. But when someone tells us that we’ll grow accustomed to what feels terrible right now, the result is that we feel even more alone in our pain.  In being pointed towards an imaginary future, we feel abandoned in this now, and this moment’s grief. The reassurance of a better tomorrow leaves us without comfort, company, or support today.

So too, when something terrible has happened in our life, the point is, we don’t ever want it to feel normal or okay again. That’s what grief is all about. After a friend lost her son in a car accident, she said the thing that scared her the most was that her life without him would ever seem okay or normal again. The normalizing of this new reality is what she was most afraid of. The idea that this new unbearable truth would become something bearable was the most horrifying part of all of it. That would mean that her son’s life and death were actually over, and a new reality had begun.

My friend needed to know that this moment’s grief was infinite in its magnitude. To know that it was forever and would never feel okay was paradoxically comforting.  When we are reassured that a time will come when we won’t mind this new dreadful reality so much, it feels as if we are being asked to minimize our current pain and thus betray our aching hearts.

Finally, when we receive “this too will feel okay” comfort, it can feel like the other person has offered assurance that allows them to feel better about our suffering, but at our expense. They can now sleep at night because they know we won’t have to feel so bad forever.  But in making it all okay for themselves, we who are suffering are left feeling even lonelier in our grief. The other person has rejected our invitation to be with us in the messy, hard, unknown of our real truth. Our suffering has been wrapped up with a bow and presented back to us, kept at a distance from their heart, safely understood and intellectualized, but without ever having been held or shared. We get back an idea and a theory on our pain, in place of the real company and understanding we need .

The next time someone close to you, or not even close to you, trusts you enough to share something painful and present, see what it feels like—for you—to refrain from giving them advice or making their suffering okay. Refrain from turning their experience into an idea or an opportunity to be helpful or wise. Rather, just as an exercise, let your job be to try and understand their experience and just allow it to be what it is.  Set your intention to try and keep them company in their truth, however bumpy it is. Notice what happens inside when you let another person reside in their real experience, without demanding that it or they change.

In those rare moments when someone has the courage or desperation to be truly vulnerable with you, to show you their living pain, trust that advice and guidance are not what they long for or want. Know that, most of the time, that person wants company, and someone to be with them where they are and with what they’re feeling. You can be that person, that friend—real company—for another human being.  And, what a gift it is to be able to offer your presence in this way. When those remarkable opportunities to be a real friend appear, which isn’t often, recognize them and rise to the challenge!

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When my nine-year-old daughter asks me if something like what happened in Newtown can happen at her school, I say “No, absolutely not.” I tell her that things like this simply will not happen. Can we know for sure that horrific things, unimaginable things, will not happen? No, the truth is we cannot know for sure. But I do not believe that children understand probability, certainly not young children. Therefore, to tell a child that the probability is very low that something this terrible, this scary, will happen again, I feel, is not helpful to the child. “The probability is low” to a child’s ear, and particularly an anxious child (which most are these days) sounds like it could, and therefore probably will happen again. Children need to know things for sure; they need absolutes, not maybe-s. While there are very few things we can actually know for sure, as parents, we need to create the experience of a world that has some certainty, some no matter what-s, some safety. There is a time to get comfortable with uncertainty but childhood is not that time.

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