Every good day doesn’t guarantee another good day. Every day that we are alive doesn’t guarantee another day of life. Still, it gets so easy to take a good day and life for granted until there are days when your heart feels heavier than usual. This past month has been one of those for me. People I love are going through experiences that have shaken the foundations of their lives. Everywhere I look, someone I love seems to be moving through a transition marked by loss, stagnancy, sorrow, or the kind of uncertainty that keeps you up at night. I’ve found myself sitting with emotions that feel too big for my body, such as fear, helplessness, grief, frustration, tenderness, and a deep ache to just make things better for them. Most of all, I’ve felt powerless, because I cannot magically return things to the way they were before their world shifted. And yet, somewhere in the middle of all these emotions, I realized thatmy job is not to fix anything; it’s to not look away. In this week’s blog, I share what I’m learning as I walk beside my loved ones through some of their hardest transitions.
There are evenings when I sit quietly, thinking of these people that I love: their faces, their exhaustion, and their grief. I can’t physically be there for many of these people. Still, every single time that I think of them, I take a second and send them my love, healing vibes, strength to endure and come out stronger, and forgiveness towards themselves and to whomever their anger is directed. It doesn’t effectively solve their troubles, but in those moments, I feel that I’m able to do something. It may not change their reality, but in those small, quiet moments, it feels like I’m honoring the love I have for them. There is something deeply sacred about remembering people in their pain without expecting anything in return. It’s a silent prayer and a gesture of care that exists simply because you love them.
As an empath, I instinctively want to ease the burden of the people I love, but this month has been a different kind of test. It has forced me to practice the kind of acceptance that doesn’t come naturally, which is the acceptance that I cannot take anyone’s pain away. I cannot heal for them. I cannot expect their healing to be linear or rushed. Nevertheless, I can show up for them through a quick check-in; an attentive ear; an uplifting message; or simply being a safe space where they can fall apart without shame, guilt, or the fear of burdening me. Most importantly, I am cognizant of not telling them to be strong and brave because every one of us is strong and brave in our own way.
I am also learning to practice patience when they are silent or distant. This is their process even when it looks messy, slow, or confusing from the outside. Their quietness is not avoidance but an act of survival. They are doing the best they can while gathering themselves and navigating storms that I cannot fully understand.
Loving someone through their healing process sometimes means stepping back so they can breathe. It means being steady without crowding them. It means letting go of expectations and simply being someone they can return to when they’re ready. It is so easy to love people when they’re happy, present, communicative, and whole; however, there is a different kind of love that needs to show up when people are barely holding it together. My intention is to show up in ways that don’t demand energy they don’t have, because, sometimes, kindness looks like sitting in the background while keeping the light on for them.
When the occasion calls for it, being there for them also means giving tough love: gently calling out self-sabotaging patterns, reminding them of what they need, and encouraging them to take the next tiny step toward caring for themselves. None of this is to control their journey, but to help them protect the parts of them they cannot see right now.
I’m also learning to forgive myself when I can’t be the friend that people hurting around me need me to be, because I’m human and may not always say or do the right thing during such difficult times. I’ve had to take a step back as well, since I’m overwhelmed with everything myself, including my own challenges. I’m okay with that decision, because caring for others deeply doesn’t require perfection; it requires heart.
There is a strange, fragile presence in this phase of life. So many people close to me are standing at the edge of immense change: some chosen, some forced. In my own life too, the future feels uncertain. I don’t know what next month will look like, for them or for me. Regardless, there is one thing I refuse to let go of: faith.
The unshakeable belief that after darkness comes light; that grief will someday make space for joy; that endings create room for beginnings; that we are equipped, more than we know, to survive the seasons that shake us. Above all, the faith that the people we love do not have to walk through their transitions alone. Sometimes, the only thing inside our control is to be there for the people we care about. It’s not by solving their problems, not by offering silver linings, not by promising that things will get better soon, but simply by holding space for their pain while honoring their experience through tenderness.
If you are going through a transition of your own, I send you my love and hope. Also, if it feels too much, I’m here to listen. It’s a genuine offer without judgement or any ulterior motive.
As always, I am here to support you all the way. I hope you keep in touch with your stories, thoughts, and feedback. If you wish to learn more, please stop by www.imperfectbodies.com. Lastly, if you enjoyed this information, then please share it with others.
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All the best,
Chaitni