I think we should all learn emotional intelligence
Emotional intelligence means understanding our feelings, knowing why we feel a certain way, and handling those emotions in ways that don’t affect the people around us. It’s also about noticing when someone else is going through something—whether they’re happy, stressed, or hurting and responding in a way that shows we care. Emotional intelligence is knowing how to be there for someone, and I think we should all practice it.
“If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.”
Then one day, when the person finally feels vulnerable enough to talk, they come to you, but all you say is, “I don’t even know what to say; it is well.”
Really? Do you know how much it took for the person to let their guard down? to trust that they could share this with you? All the times that they almost held back, thinking, maybe they should just stay quiet and go through it alone. And then all you have to offer is, “I don’t even know what to say.”
It’s painful. Because while I may not always have the perfect words myself, I know how important it is to hold space for someone, to at least try to understand what they must have gone through to open up to me. Like you trusted me enough to share, and I’ll make you feel safe and make you feel seen. I’ll make you feel like I get you, so much that you will be comfortable too. I know I can do that, and I’m not bragging; it’s just how I am.
Telling someone that you don’t know what to say after they open up to you will make them feel like they have overshared, like you were not genuinely interested in what they are going through and that you’re only curious for the gist. Instead of saying, “I don’t know what to say,” try something that feels more caring, like, “I may not have all the answers, but I’m here with you.” Or, “Thank you for trusting me with this; I know that wasn’t easy.” Or, “Thank you for sharing this with me; I can imagine how hard it must have been.” Simple words like these can go a long way. They don’t need to be perfect, but they show that you are listening and that you’re there for them, even if you’re not sure how to help. Most of the time, people don’t need you to fix their problems because, to be honest, you can’t fix their problems; they need you to sit with them in their pain, to listen, to share the weight, even if you don’t fully understand.
“You’ll be fine.”
Ah. Yes I know I’ll be fine but you know what else?? It’s that you’ll never hear me speak again to you about something like this. Like, I’d rather chew stone than talk to you. I’ll be fine, but why am I now speaking to you?
When you tell someone, “You’ll be fine,” it might feel like you’re trying to reassure them, but it is actually dismissive. Yes, I know I’ll be fine eventually, but sometimes I just need someone to listen to what I’m going through, not just rush to tell me I’ll be okay. I know I’ll be okay, but sometimes I just need someone to listen, not just tell me it’ll all be fine. It makes me wonder why I even shared this in the first place. Next time, I might just stay silent.
“I can relate.”
No, you can’t. You’re not in my shoes.
Sometimes, when we’re trying to support someone, we dismiss their feelings by saying things like, “I can relate,” and comparing their experience to ours. You might mean well, but can you really relate? I’m learning that even if two people have been through similar situations, each person’s experience is unique. No one else feels exactly the way I do. For instance, when I talked about my brother’s situation to a friend, I said, “I can relate to this because I’ve been through it before.” And yes, we may have shared a similar experience growing up, but my friend was right to correct me that it’s still his experience, not mine. Even if we grew up in the same house, his pain and responses to the pain are his alone. My experience, however close, is not a mirror of his.
When you say, “I can relate,” it unintentionally shifts the moment to your experience—what you went through, how you handled it. But here’s the thing: you’re not in my shoes. And maybe I don’t need you to fix it, solve it, or relate to it. I just need you to hear me out without reaching for words that might comfort you more than they comfort me. My experience isn’t one size-fits-all; it’s personal.
I get that we want to connect and show people they’re not alone in their struggles. Sometimes, sharing our own experiences feels like a bridge, a way of saying, “I understand.” But when we say, “I can relate,” we can accidentally overshadow the person’s experience we’re trying to support. If you think that sharing a similar story might genuinely make them feel better, you can try saying something like:
“I once went through something like this, and it affected me so much, too, but I know everyone’s experience is different. I’m just here to listen if that would help.” or “I can’t know exactly what this is like for you, but I’ve felt pain, too.”
True empathy isn’t about saying, “I’ve been there.” It’s about being with someone in their moment of need, letting them know that you’re here—not to fix or compare but just to be present.
“I’ve been through worse.”
Oh dear. This response dismisses the other person’s feelings entirely. Empathy isn’t about downplaying someone’s experience just because you’ve been through something too. It’s not a competition. If anything, going through difficult times ourselves should help us understand the importance of kindness and support rather than undermining someone else’s struggle.
“You’re a strong person.”
Whenever people tell you, “You’re a strong person,” it can feel like they’re trying to make you feel better, to reassure you that you’re doing well despite the given circumstances. But sometimes, it’s not actually as cute as it sounds. Just because I might appear to be carrying my baggage well doesn’t mean it’s not heavy; it doesn’t mean that I don’t feel like I’m barely holding it together.
Strength can be misunderstood. People see resilience or endurance and call it “strength,” yet that can overlook the reality of what it takes to keep going, especially when you feel anything but strong. Being called strong can feel dismissive, like a polite way of saying, “You’ll be fine; you’re handling this well.” But what if I don’t want to have to be strong? What if I just need someone to sit with me and acknowledge that this is hard?
This isn’t just about emotional support; it’s about emotional responsibility. If you offer to be there for someone, then be there fully. Listen without judgment, hold space without needing to jump in with solutions, and above all, don’t make them feel like they are a burden to you. Sometimes, all people need to feel a little bit lighter.
