As I sat in the driver’s seat, my legs awkwardly curled beneath me, I clutched a grocery bag from the backseat, fighting the urge to be sick. I had pulled over at an old gas station, tears streaming down my face, my emotions so overwhelming that I couldn’t see straight. Just ten minutes into my journey home from a beach getaway with friends, I felt completely lost. I had left two days early, plagued by chronic depression and a profound need to return to the comfort of my home, family, and furry companions. The beauty of the unfamiliar scenery only heightened my distress, leading to an intense emotional release that felt raw and primal.
I quickly texted my therapist for an urgent appointment and then called my partner, Jake. When he answered, he could hear my labored breaths and muffled sobs. After a moment of silence, he asked, “What’s wrong?” I managed to tell him I was on my way home and that I wasn’t okay.
His honest reply was, “I don’t understand what you’re going through.” Though simple and unembellished, it was genuine. Without pausing, I found myself saying, “I don’t need you to understand. I just want to hear about the everyday things happening at home.”
He shared mundane updates about pressure washing the sidewalk, checking chemical levels in the pool, and tackling the weeds in the yard. I could visualize the laundry piled in baskets, dishes stacked in the sink, and unmade beds—all things I knew he and the kids would have sorted out by the time I returned. With each word he spoke, the weight of my emotions began to lift. What started as sobs transformed into measured breaths. I was okay again. I could drive. Four hours later, I pulled into my driveway, still breathing, still okay, and finally home.
I was met with warmth and love (and a request for an expensive scooter from my youngest), and when I was ready to discuss my feelings, I found genuine curiosity awaiting me.
When I became a parent, I worried about not having all the answers. I felt comfortable navigating small challenges, like learning to use a breast pump. But the bigger unknowns—experiences that couldn’t be Googled—terrified me, especially as my children grew into middle schoolers.
I had been the kind of kid who didn’t engage in reckless behavior. I never experimented with substances or found myself in questionable situations; my teenage rebellion was limited to believing I was smarter than my parents. I feared that my lack of firsthand experience with adolescent missteps would leave me ill-equipped to guide my children through similar situations.
But here’s the beauty of motherhood: sitting beside a child who asks if you’ve ever experienced something, and you can honestly say, “Nope, I haven’t. Tell me about it.” They’re willing to share because they sense your genuine interest. They know you’re not asking to judge or punish but to understand. In those moments, you build a foundation of trust. When they look guilty or anxious, and you ask what’s bothering them, they’ll remember your sincerity.
When someone needs you to solve a practical problem (like cleaning up messes before the social worker arrives), knowing where the cleaning supplies are is essential. But here’s the kicker: parenting is only 10% dealing with messes and 90% about the meaningful stuff.
When your loved ones seek your support for the more significant challenges—like navigating tough relationships or feeling lost—sometimes, it’s beneficial not to have all the answers. Even if you do understand, sometimes it’s helpful to play the role of the uninformed.
A lack of understanding can enrich relationships. It stops us from launching unsolicited advice and helps us engage in meaningful conversations based on sincere curiosity. Sometimes, being knowledgeable means you become complacent, lacking the drive to show genuine care. If love is truly about paying attention, then embracing our ignorance can be a path to deeper connection.
Not understanding doesn’t equate to not caring. Embrace it. Wear it like a badge of honor, both for yourself and your loved ones. Unless, of course, the topic is YouTube or Minecraft—then it’s perfectly fine to not care at all.
For more insights on this topic, check out this post on home insemination or explore the expertise available at Intracervical Insemination. Additionally, Kindbody offers excellent resources for pregnancy and home insemination.
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In summary, empathy is not always about understanding; sometimes, it’s about being present, listening, and fostering trust without the pressure of having all the answers.