What Strangers Teach Me
Field Notes on Mortality — #10
One of the things I hear over and over from callers is some version of this:
“I think it’s easier to talk about this stuff with a stranger.”
And it took me a little bit to understand. The stakes are lower. I don’t know them. I’m not going to run into them at Thanksgiving. I’m not going to look at them differently the next time we’re in the same room. Whatever they say lands and then kind of… stays here. With me. Not in their world.
I see that there’s a freedom in that.
But something I don’t think I realized until I was banging my head on the keyboard trying to figure out what to write today: It’s also easier to hold space for a stranger.
And it’s a really interesting revelation to come to because it feels important and a little uncomfortable at the same time.
When someone I care about is going through something hard, I feel it. Really feel it. I know their history. I know the context. I know the people involved (at least to some extent). I know what they’ve already tried. And because I love them, I want them to be okay. Which means I almost immediately start reaching for something. A reframe. A suggestion. The right thing to say that might make it hurt less.
And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked away from those conversations and thought: why did I say that?
Not because I meant harm. Not because I didn’t care. But because caring too much about the outcome made it hard to just be there. The love sometimes gets in the way of the presence.
When I get on the phone with a caller, none of that is in the room.
I don’t know them. I don’t know what they’ve already been through or who else they’ve talked to or what they’re hoping I’ll say. And crucially, I go into every single one of these calls knowing I’m not going to fix anything. That’s not the point. It’s never been the point. Two humans connecting on a deeper level for an hour. That’s it. And then we go our separate ways.
That clarity of purpose makes it easier to just listen.
Not listen while preparing what to say next. Not listen while quietly running through options. Just actually listen to what someone is saying right now, in this moment, without an agenda attached to it.
I’ve spent most of my life trying to prove I knew what to say. That I was smart enough, aware enough, helpful enough to have the right response ready. And honestly, giving advice is easy. Living with the results of that advice is what the other person has to deal with. It’s a lot simpler to tell someone what to do when you don’t have any skin in the game.
What I’ve slowly learned, through these calls, through a lot of humbling moments, is that the people I most admire aren’t the ones with the best answers. They’re the ones who actually hear you. Who take in what you’re saying before they respond. Who don’t make the situation all about finding a solution.
And I think that’s what I’m practicing every time I pick up the phone.
Not therapy. Not expertise. Just the discipline of sitting with someone else’s discomfort without trying to escape it by fixing it.
The strange thing is that it’s a skill. It doesn’t come naturally, at least not for me. My instinct is still to reach for something useful to say. But the calls have given me a lot of reps at catching that instinct and setting it down.
I don’t think we talk enough about how hard it actually is to be with someone in pain without doing anything about it. We’re wired to help. We’re rewarded for having answers. And when it’s someone we love, the discomfort of watching them struggle is real. So doing something, even if it doesn’t really help, at least makes us feel less helpless.
But most of the time, I don’t think that’s what people need.
I think they need someone to stay. To not flinch. To not immediately redirect toward the silver lining or the lesson or the next right move. To not worry about being judged, coddled, or looked at differently the next day. To just be there with them in the part that's hard.
Strangers have taught me that.
This reflection comes from an ongoing project called When We Die Talks, which explores death, loss, and how we live with uncertainty through anonymous conversations.