Some stories become possible to tell only once they are over.
Then we know where to begin. We can connect the events, choose our words, and explain how we got from one moment to the next. In the end, we sometimes manage to say what we’ve learned from it all.
But while we’re still in the middle of the story, we rarely speak so coherently.
Someone asks how we’re doing, and we get stuck between what we could say and what we have the strength to say that day. We know something isn’t right, but we don’t know where to start. One part of our worry seems too trivial to mention. Another is so vast we can’t imagine how it would fit into a conversation that has barely begun.
So we say we’re fine.
We don’t owe everyone an explanation. We have the right to keep some things to ourselves. But there comes a moment when that response becomes a habit—even in front of the person to whom we’d actually like to say more.
Perhaps we’re waiting to first figure out for ourselves what’s happening to us. To make a decision we’ve been putting off, find the cause of our fatigue, or manage to voice a single thought without having to start over. We want to present ourselves to the other person as composed, with a story they’ll be able to understand.
In the meantime, we go about our duties, reply to messages, and ask others how they’re doing. On the surface, the day may seem perfectly ordinary. Only we know how much attention it takes to stay present in each of those conversations.
Sometimes waiting brings clarity. We need time alone to hear our own thoughts. But waiting can also become a way to subtly push away people who would like to be with us. They don’t know that we’re trying to protect them from our own confusion. They hear that we’re fine and continue to trust us.
But we keep living with a part of the story that no one knows.
There is a special kind of trust in the phrase: “I’m not sure how to explain this to you, but I’d like to try.” We don’t offer a ready-made conclusion; instead, we invite them to stay present while we search for the right words.
This might not be easy for the listener at first. They might try to comfort us, offer advice, or hope to quickly find a reason that will make us feel better. There can be a lot of worry in all of this. And they, too, are looking for a way to reach us.
Sometimes we can help them by telling them what we need right now. Maybe we’d like them to listen to us until the end. Maybe we need their opinion. Or maybe we just want them to be there while we sit together and occasionally return to topics we haven’t quite found the right way to start yet.
Conversations like these don’t have to be serious from first word to last. Sometimes, in the middle of something hard, we both notice how awkwardly we’ve spoken and we laugh. That doesn’t diminish why we’re there. Sometimes that brief moment of lightheartedness actually helps us move forward.
It’s also important how the relationship develops afterward. Can we admit the next day that we still haven’t found the answer? Can we say that we now see the same experience differently? The person we confided in might want to know that we’re doing better. We need a little time to figure out what we’re really feeling.
And we, too, can offer that kind of attention to someone else. Listen to a friend who keeps returning to the same topic because they’re trying to make sense of it. Stay with a loved one while they search for the right words. Accept that the conversation won’t always end with a conclusion that makes it easier for both of us to go to sleep.
Sometimes we’ll just agree to continue tomorrow. And that might be enough for that day.
It’s nice when, after some time has passed, we look back and manage to put into words what we’ve been through. But we also remember the people we were able to turn to before we knew how it would all turn out.
Those in front of whom we paused mid-sentence, and who didn’t rush to finish it for us.
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