The quiet joys of sharing our pain

The heart that hurts is unsightly. The heart in pain should be shielded, cordoned off until it’s fixed. People need us to be happy. Sharing our pain brings others down. If you must take time to heal, take it alone. These are the things our culture teaches us. We should get over our pain as quickly as possible so that people feel comfortable spending time with us again.

Everyone agrees that humans need time to grieve, but so few of us are taught how. We recognize that emotions affect us, and that we need space for ourselves, but what are we supposed to do in that space? Many of us aren’t fortunate enough to have someone sit with us in silence, to sit with us and silently hold our hand, as we try to figure out who this new person is that lives inside our bodies now. Bring someone in, and you run the risk of dragging them down. That is the lie we tell ourselves. That American exceptionalism means that we should be able to handle every internal struggle alone, that no one else is strong enough to carry our burdens with us.

Friendships in media are often portrayed as an accumulation of happy memories, a bridge suspended on clouds of laughter. While that is part of friendship, that’s not all it is. Sometimes friendship is the hammock that cradles you as you feel yourself sag into it with your full weight. Sometimes it’s realizing how much stronger you are when you’re asked to lift something that isn’t yours. Sometimes it’s keeping a flame burning long enough for someone to find it in the dark. Sometimes pain is that flame.

It’s not about having all the answers, or knowing where to go. Sometimes it’s enough to know that someone is with you in the dark, to see their unsure expression and heartfelt smile as you wander off to wherever you go from here. A heart that hurts is one that feels. A heart that hurts is one that can heal.

Pain should be held, not hidden. It should be embraced and cradled. It should be shown to others so they can help. When we show each other our pain, it becomes just a little bit smaller. We see that the person next to us is still there, that our matching scars are not only proof of pain, but survival. I want to learn how to sit with people, how to hold them, how to be the face beside them in the dark. I want to heal with my hurt.

Our culture tells us that every question has an answer, that the answers will make us feel better. Sometimes, it isn’t about an answer. It’s enough to ask the question. It’s enough to pull something out of ourselves and set it down, to make no attempt to build a box around it or label it, to simply acknowledge it as a part of us. Maybe the light that it gives off will warm someone else. Maybe it will resonate with someone else. Maybe it will be the missing piece of the puzzle.

Sharing is hard. It means opening ourselves up to rejection. It means not knowing if our next step will be forward or backward. It means accepting that the person who came with us so far may not be the person to go with us the rest of the way. It means acknowledging that our time together was valuable, even if it wasn’t forever. Sharing means leaving a piece of ourselves with other people, because we know that another piece will grow to replace it. It means accepting other people’s pieces, making them into a mirror we can use to see ourselves when the voices in our head get too loud.

Teach me to be that person. Teach me to remind people of who they are at their best when they feel the worst. Teach me to remind them that they are more than their worst day. Teach me to help them take the next step, even if they don’t know how they’re going to take the twenty after that. Teach me to help them to appreciate their progress, even as the mountain in front of them grows larger with every step. Teach me to help them love themselves for who they are instead of waiting for who they might be.

Teach me to give them the love they deserve instead of the love they were given. Teach me to help them look up at the faces who love them, even if their vision is blurred by tears. Teach me to not let the ending stop the beginning from being born. Teach me to shine the light that I have, to see it as a light that someone needs, even if it’s not that bright. Teach me to be a lighthouse in the dark. Teach me to comfort the hurting heart.