Homebody & Heart

A friend I love is standing at the edge of something hard right now. The kind of hard where you can’t fix it, can’t shortcut it, can’t borrow wisdom from your own life because the situation isn’t the same. All I’ve got is that I love her, and that I’m here.

For a long time, I would have thought that wasn’t enough. Mostly because I was close to someone who, any time I brought up something I was struggling with, would immediately go into Solutions Mode. Not in a kind way. Not even in a productive way. It was more like I’d say “I’m having a hard week” and he’d say “well have you tried drinking more water.” And I’d sit there, mouth slightly open, wondering if this was a bit or if this was my actual life.

Every single time. A well-meaning suggestion that completely missed the point, followed by a faint air of “glad we solved that” while I sat there emotionally bleeding out on the couch.

It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize he wasn’t trying to help me. He was trying to make my problem stop inconveniencing him. “Fix it” was actually “make it quieter so I can relax.”

That relationship taught me a lot of things. One of them was useful: when someone you love is going through it, you don’t always need a plan. Sometimes what they need is for you to not make the thing worse by trying to optimize it.

So when my friend told me what was happening, my instinct was to reach for something useful. Advice. Reassurance. A plan. A suggestion that would shortcut her suffering and get her back to the version of things that felt more okay. I could feel the sentences forming in my head: “have you thought about…” “what if you…” “maybe you could…”

I didn’t say any of them.

I said, “I love you. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

I meant it. The urge to offer something useful sat in my throat like a pill that won’t go down.

I think a lot of us were raised on the idea that showing up means doing something. Bringing a casserole. Making a spreadsheet. Organizing a plan. Being useful. And sometimes it does mean that. But a lot of the time, showing up means getting out of your own way long enough to let someone be exactly where they are without trying to hurry them to the next part.

It is harder than it sounds. It means resisting the urge to reframe, lighten the mood, find the silver lining, or remind someone that “everything happens for a reason.” (Everything does not happen for a reason. Please do not say this to a person in crisis. This is my actual plea to the general public.)

It means sitting in the quiet part. The part where nobody has anything smart to say. The part where the situation is not okay and cannot be made okay by a well-placed affirmation or a green smoothie recipe.

I don’t always get it right. Sometimes I still reach for the fix. Sometimes I say something dumb and have to walk it back. Sometimes I internally panic and start mentally googling what to do, like there’s a Wikipedia article titled “What To Say When Your Friend Is Going Through It” and I just need to find it.

But I’m learning. Slowly. In real time. Usually while holding my phone and staring at a text message I’ve rewritten eleven times.

Here’s what I know: you don’t have to have answers to be present. You don’t have to fix it to make it better. “I love you” is not a small thing. It is often the entire thing.

My friend knows I’m here. She knows I’m not going to try to solve her. She knows she can tell me things without me responding with a six-paragraph strategic plan.

I can’t fix anything. I wouldn’t know where to start. I’m just here. With snacks. With low expectations of how this conversation needs to go.

Sometimes that’s what love looks like. Not a solution. Not a strategy. Definitely not a “have you tried drinking more water.”