Understanding

Switzerland (1869) John Sargent

The complexities of my heart are many. In recent months, sorrow has welled within me, a dark tide seeking some shore of comfort, some acknowledgment of the pain carving itself deeper into my soul.

If you're familiar with despair, you know that sorrow doesn't simply evaporate into some distant corridor of your being. Rather, it sinks in, only to resurface at the most inopportune moments—during a casual conversation, in the silence between songs, in the small hours when sleep abandons you.

During a recent exchange with a friend, I was offered the understanding I had been unconsciously longing for.

It wasn't a complete comprehension of my feelings—how could it be? But rather, a confirmation of what I truly needed.

My friend looked at me, eyes steady, and said simply, "I have no idea what you're feeling, but I want you to know that I'm here to listen and affirm you are loved. That's all I can do."

And while my vulnerabilities had so often faded into disappointment and frustration, this was exactly the understanding I had been searching for all along.

Of course no one will ever know the depths of another's feelings or truly "get it." The labyrinth of another's pain remains uniquely their own. But for someone to acknowledge this limitation rather than offer unsolicited life advice—the well-meaning but hollow platitudes of a self-appointed life coach—was all I'd ever wanted without knowing I wanted it.

In that moment, something essential was affirmed.

I needed someone to simply recognize my sadness, acknowledge its depths without claiming to measure them, admit the boundaries of their understanding, and still offer their presence—an open heart of love and warmth beside me in the darkness.

Sometimes being understood isn't about having someone map the geography of your pain. It's about having someone who's willing to sit with you while you navigate it yourself.