Can We Allow People to Have Their Suffering?
I have spent a lot of my life helping people.
As a registered nurse, yoga teacher, Reiki Master, hypnosis practitioner, and studio owner, I have been in the room with people who are hurting physically, emotionally, and sometimes in ways they cannot put into words.
My instinct is to help. When I can see a possible solution, I want to offer it. When someone I care about is struggling and I think I know something that could help, staying quiet can feel incredibly difficult.
That instinct comes from empathy.
Lately, though, I have been asking myself a question that makes me a little uncomfortable:
Can we allow people to have their suffering?
Can we stay with someone who is struggling without immediately giving advice, reassuring them, finding a solution, or trying to move them through the experience?
I think sometimes we have to.
Why Is It So Hard to Watch Someone Suffer?
When we care about someone, their pain affects us.
I have caught myself listening to someone while part of my brain is already working on the solution. I know a resource, I have an idea or I can see another possibility.
There are certainly times when someone needs information, professional care, resources, or immediate help.
There are also experiences that cannot be solved for another person.
Grief. Heartbreak. Disappointment. Fear. A relationship falling apart or a decision someone does not know how to make.
We can support someone through those experiences but we cannot experience them for them.
Feeling someone's pain does not give me ownership of it.
That has become an important distinction for me.
Why Do We Suffer?
This is the question underneath all of this for me.
Why do we suffer?
Do we need some of our suffering to grow? Do we create some of it through the choices we make? Do certain experiences continue until we are ready to see something in ourselves or our lives?
I do not have a clean answer, and after years of working with people, I am wary of anyone who claims to have one.
I don't believe every illness, loss, trauma, heartbreak, or painful experience arrives carrying a lesson someone was supposed to learn. Sometimes terrible things happen and sometimes circumstances are beyond our control.
I have also watched difficult experiences lead people toward realizations they could not have been handed by someone else.
A boundary becomes clear. A relationship has to be examined. A pattern becomes impossible to ignore. Someone finally admits they are unhappy. A person realizes they have been living according to expectations that no longer fit their life.
The meaning belongs to the person experiencing it.
That may be exactly why rushing in to fix everything is not about you.
What Years of Working With People Have Taught Me
There have been conversations where I wanted to jump ahead because I could see where someone might go.
Then I had to remember that they were not there yet.
You can give someone information, offer tools, ask questions, create a safe environment and even tell them what you see.
But they still have to arrive at their own understanding.
That philosophy influences the way our instructors at West Door Yoga & Wellness teach. The person in front of us has their own history, body, fears, expectations, and reasons for being there.
The same idea carries far beyond a yoga class.
When Helping Becomes Fixing
I have started paying attention to the moment when my desire to help becomes a desire to fix.
When I feel that urge, I ask myself a few questions:
Did this person ask me for advice?
Have I given them enough space to tell me what they need?
Can I be present while they are uncomfortable?
Am I trying to move them toward an answer before they are ready?
Can I be silent and allow them to participate in their own process?
Support can look like offering a resource, encouraging someone to seek appropriate professional help. Sometimes it can mean sharing what I know.
And sometimes it means listening. But it definitely means knowing when to know the difference between the two.
What Yoga Practice Has Taught Me About Discomfort
Yoga gives us an interesting place to observe our relationship with discomfort.
During a challenging practice, we notice sensation. We notice the desire to move. We notice frustration, impatience, fear, or the internal voice telling us we cannot do something.
With appropriate guidance, we learn to pay attention.
We breathe. We notice what is happening. We decide what our body needs.
That awareness is part of what we teach through yoga classes and wellness experiences at West Door Yoga & Wellness, and it is something I have written about when discussing how yoga can support people experiencing physical stiffness and discomfort.
I think there is something here that applies to our relationships too.
We can notice our own discomfort when someone we care about is struggling.
Then we can decide what the moment is actually asking from us.
Can We Let Someone Find Their Own Way?
I started with the question of whether we can allow people to have their suffering.
I think we can.
That does not mean abandoning someone or ignoring a situation where intervention is necessary. It means recognizing that another person's inner experience belongs to them.
There will be times when someone asks for our advice and genuinely wants it.
There will also be times when the person we care about has to sit with a question we cannot answer for them.
They may choose something we would not choose. They may discover something through the experience that we could never have explained to them.
For someone who naturally wants to help, allowing that can be difficult.
I am learning that I can care deeply without taking ownership of someone else's process.
I can offer what I know when it is wanted.
I can stay present.
And sometimes, I can sit beside someone while life hurts.
Dee Morrow is the co-founder of West Door Yoga & Wellness in Bay Shore, NY. A registered nurse, 500-hour yoga teacher, Reiki Master, and hypnosis practitioner, she brings decades of experience working with people through change, discomfort, healing, and personal growth.
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